


The Melding

by immortalityinculture, midgetnazgul



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ...lots of sexual content, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, First Time, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Sexual Content, TW: drug use, tw: child abuse, tw: mention of suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-29 04:29:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 221,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/immortalityinculture/pseuds/immortalityinculture, https://archiveofourown.org/users/midgetnazgul/pseuds/midgetnazgul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year after Sherlock has returned home, the consulting detective and the erstwhile soldier have grown ever closer. In the wake of personal tragedy and as the final emotional barriers they've built over storied lives are mutually torn down, how will they respond to the final, deepest secrets each man has kept from the other?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is an adaptation of a continuing role play I am engaged in with my coauthor listed above. Chapters may be slow to come as the raw back-and-forthing we do needs to be reformatted into something a bit more easy to read.
> 
> Anything written as John is 95% immortalityinculture. Anything written as Sherlock is 95% me. Secondary characters, it varies as they appear. We'll just say it's 50/50. Additional character tags will be added as plot continues.
> 
> Britpicked by the illustrious flamiekitten on Tumblr.
> 
> As ever, please do R&R!

_-2013: Buenaventura, Colombia-_

_Morons._

Gunfire pinged on a shipping container close enough for Sherlock to perceive, but instead of flinching he merely laughed. He glanced behind best he could as the bag at the small of his back continued bouncing in rhythm with his running, knowing his assailant had to change clips – just one man was immediately behind him at the moment, but he could hear others shouting amongst the crowded port. Ducking around a corner, he skidded to a halt and, after a few beats, thrust an elbow behind him. A crunching sound and mysteriously-remote pain reported his success in taking another man down. That was three, now, but wasn't even close to all of them. Still, it gave him time, and that was all he really needed.

Twenty minutes later some poor sod lay unconscious in his pants as Sherlock hurriedly slipped on his ill-fitting but passable work trousers, shirt, and jacket (complete with newsboy hat). The shipping tanker about to depart would stop over in Panama City in a day or so, and even if his pursuers could combine their collective pathetic intellects to check manifests as to the destination, by the time they could catch up to it, he'd be aground and well on his way north. He walked aboard with the last gaggle of the slouching lot, appearing sufficiently cowed by his surroundings for everyone to write him off as a first-time shipmate. This provided a dual advantage: no one would want to take responsibility for teaching a newbie anything about the work, which meant minimal human interaction, and he would be expected to do very little outside of general menial labour.

He arrived below deck and took the darkest, most remote corner of the collective living space to burrow into. He feigned sleep until just after midnight, arm circled possessively around his duffel bag, pistol constantly at hand and safety off, but not a trace of fear was to be found in the man. Instead a manic smile lingered on his features, entirely confident of his superiority. When at last the coast was clear, he finally opened the bag. Shunting aside the crisp stacks of American one-hundred dollar bills, he found his true prize. He fashioned himself a makeshift tourniquet using the elastic band in the hat and siphoned off the last bit of his pre-prepared vial. He'd have to make do with powder over the next few hits, but it was certainly better than nothing.

The cheap mattress under him gave infinitesimally as he sat back and basked in both his rising high as well as his hard-won victory. Mycroft would be out for blood - Sherlock fully expected being all but kidnapped and brought before him somewhere between Panama and Mexico. His brother could fuck right off, however. The Work – this new, improved (i.e. dangerous), and vastly more interesting version was all he needed. All he ever _had_ needed.

Anything and anyone else was a distraction unworthy of his time.

 

_-2016: London, England-_

“I like you.”

A soft, vaguely sweet-smelling hand skimmed over the plain table top to rest over another tanned and leathery one. “Really, I do, but I don’t think we’re in a place to continue this relationship right now.”

John tried and failed to suppress the tightening of his jaw. “You mean you don’t think _I’m_ in a place to continue this relationship.” The sweet-looking, round-faced brunette tilted her head sadly across the table and John’s jaw tightened even more. “Just say it, Emily. Say what you’re thinking.”

She sighed. “I’m thinking that we should put things on hold for a while. Take a break. You’re…distant, John, and I know what you’re dealing with right now is difficult enough without me stepping in and making things complicated.” John slid his hand out from under hers and watched her face twinge with soft pity. There was a noticeable silence. “John?”

“Yeah—” John’s eyes sharpened immediately and focused on her face, desperately searching. “Just, what was it that made you decide…all this—I know you didn’t just come to this conclusion. What was the last straw? I just want to know.”

Emily sighed again, her eyes sliding away from him in such a manner that he recognized, and suddenly he knew exactly what she was going to say. “I know your close relationships are very important to you right now, especially with your…friend, Sherlock—”

“This isn’t about me at all, it’s about him.”

“No! No. It’s just—well, John, he’s a very difficult person, and you’re always running off with him doing all these dangerous things, and today he… _well._  I think he’s protective of you, or something—you two are obviously _very_ close—”

“So?” John’s voice was testy now. Emily exhaled slowly and watched him with infuriatingly sympathetic intent.

“So…I don’t want to get in the way of you two.” Long pause.

“Sorry?”

“I know, John. And I don’t want to get between you.”

Ten minutes later, a frantic but not entirely surprised John paced outside the café his ex-girlfriend had exited a minute or so before. He wasn’t necessarily sad and he wasn’t necessarily hurt, but he was conflicted and he was furious, and he was furious because he was conflicted. Whipping his head aggressively side to side in a vigorous shaking motion, he dug out his phone.

_Have you no shame? -JW_

_Normally, no. What are you referring to in particular? -SH_

_Oh, I dun'no. Maybe you insulting my girlfriend when she came round today? She's angry now, Sherlock, and very hurt. -JW_

_I don't recall what I said, but I'm going to assume it was some kind of truth I deduced. People don't generally like being told the truth about themselves. -SH_

_You told her she had self-worth issues that were understandable considering her weight. You can't just say things like that, Sherlock! -JW_

_Why? I pointed it out, certainly, but I **sympathized** , too, when I said it was understandable. You've been telling me to work on that, so I did. -SH_

_That--that's not what I meant. Confirming her weight problem isn't sympathizing. She came round today in an effort to get to know you. She's trying, but you're making it difficult when you say things like that, do you understand? -JW_

_I wouldn't call it a 'problem' at all, John. She's approximately twenty-one pounds heavier than the upper range boundary of ideal BMI for her height. I made mention of her self-worth issues compared against the modern Western conceptualization of beauty that she likely attempts to emulate. **I** don't find issue with her weight whatsoever, though I have to admit you referring to it as a 'problem' causes me to judge **you** a bit, John. You do realize that manufactured and photoshopped farce people refer to as a 'woman' exemplified in your porn folder is an impossible standard to hold for all women? -SH_

_I...excuse me? -JW_

_She's the one that refers to it as a problem. I have no problem with her size - obviously. And the women on my... just stay out of my computer, alright? -JW_

_If you want me to stay off your computer, do a better job with the password, or hiding it. If it's the only computer available in the sitting room when I'm working, I'm going to use it. Surely you have grasped that by now. That said, I'm glad to know you're not another mindless lemming of today's soulless marketing of the female gender. Tell her what I just told you, then. That should assuage her. -SH_

_She's not... she won't really talk to me right now. -JW_

_And don't bloody leave your computer in your room all the time, then. -JW_

_Why won't she talk to **you** ? You don't have any control over my opinions or what I say, despite your numerous and heroic attempts to do so, and I'm sure you thoroughly warned her before meeting me. It's perfectly understandable she wouldn't want to speak with me, given how she improperly understood what I was trying to say, but **you** ? That's just foolish. And I leave my laptop in my room because it's convenient to keep there when my bed's comfort factor facilitates accessing my mind palace. -SH_

_It's hard to explain. This isn't the first foul concerning you. It was sort of the last, actually. -JW_

_It was? I wasn't aware, though I imagine I couldn't have done much to prevent them. Wasn't that my first time meeting her? How could I have such an impact when we've only met once? -SH_

_I may've spoken about you a bit. Cancelled dates for cases. That sort of thing. It's not important, really-- well, I didn't think so. -JW_

_Ah, I see. But this is our standard of living. Did you not warn her of this when you began dating? And what exactly did you tell her about me? -SH_

_I told her I solve crimes with you, I just didn't tell her how many. Erm, just the usual stuff. I just told her about our life, nothing I can imagine that would make her upset. -JW_

_You're a very tactful man; I can't imagine whatever you told her would upset her, either. You avoided the obvious turnoffs - my odd experimentations, my (and your) penchant for chasing armed criminals singlehandedly, the time I tried to exhume a body myself. That sort of thing. Obviously her short patience for our existence disqualified her for a potential long-term partner. All for the best, in my opinion. If you're going to spend time pining the next few days, do try to do it outside the flat. Contrary to whatever you may think, I don't particularly enjoy watching you mope. -SH_

_I...I don't **mope** , Sherlock. But if you want me out for a while then I'll stay out. -JW_

_Yes, you mope spectacularly. I think it's accentuated by the smile lines in your face, but that's just speculation on my part. It's not a question of wanting you out - far from it. But it seems I don't do a particularly good job of comforting you in cases like these. I am apparently unable to help you, and I distinctly dislike seeing you upset. So I would irk you, you would irk me, and things would become unpleasant between us. I figure your absence will facilitate improving your mood. Unless you disagree? -SH_

_The smile lines? -JW_

_I dun'no. I always sort of felt a little bit better knowing you were there. I can stay out or something, though. Go to a pub. Usually do that after I get dumped anyway. -JW_

_The unique wrinkling of skin around your mouth - I can't come up with a better phrase for it, much to my consternation. Apologies. -SH_

_Wait, I...help? Really? You're about forty to fifty per cent more likely to be terse with me after something like this happens, and for longer periods. Hence I assumed my presence merely agitated you. -SH_

_Yeah, but...it's only because...You know, they say you take it out on the ones you love most because you know they'll still be there when it's over, that sort of thing. -JW_

_You know what I mean. Right? -JW_

_That sounds like a roundabout description of an emotionally abusive relationship. But yes, I understand what you're trying to say. And as it appears I am okay with you using me as a physical punching bag when I make you angry, it's only fair I assume that role emotionally as well. -SH_

_I feel compelled to mention that was a joke. -SH_

_...Is it? -JW_

_Yes, of course it was. I was referring to the time I dressed as a vicar when we met Adler. Do you not remember that? Thought you would, given how spectacularly angry you were. -SH_

_...I'm terrible at this, aren't I? Having to explain one's jokes is usually a mark of someone with poor wit. -SH_

_Trust me, you don't have poor wit by anyone's standards. I'm just cautious when it comes to this. I don't want to, you know, place you in an abusive relationship. -JW_

_Actually attempting to abuse me physically would be hilariously ambitious of you. Obligatory insult of your ability to hurt me aside, you needn't worry at all, John. You are entirely too kind to even entertain the thought of keeping someone in a relationship against their will through emotional or physical subterfuge. I would even be so bold as to call you completely incapable of truly hurting someone you cared about intentionally, and you know how rarely I use absolution in my descriptors. -SH_

_I'm not a saint. I just don't want to hurt you. -JW_

_You, most assuredly, are **not** a saint, given the 2.35 gigabytes of porn you have on your laptop and the fact you've committed murder in cold blood. But that doesn't mean you're not a good man. Far from it. I trust you implicitly, John. I **know** you won't hurt me...again, intentionally. -SH_

_But I hurt you unintentionally, then. -JW_

_Of course you have; I'm certain I've done the same to you. Part of the human condition. No need for hand-wringing. -SH_

_I know that. I just... I don't know how to explain it. The thought makes me sick. Everyone else has already hurt you plenty. -JW_

_That...is true, but nothing I can't handle. It isn't your job to be some kind of post-haste shield against any insult that has ever been or ever will be thrown at me, you know. You're only going to exhaust yourself. That would be a bit not good. -SH_

_I keep thinking about what's going to happen if I get married again. -JW_

_**Married?** John, that was your first girlfriend since...everything. How is the concept of marriage anywhere other than your periphery? And what does that have to do with me? -SH_

_Because I **want** to get married again, Sherlock, but I don't, and it has nothing to do with you and it has everything to do with you. -JW_

_That does not even begin to make sense. -SH_

_That's the problem. All those things I just said, they've been bouncing around in my head for a while and I don't know which goes with which or what makes sense but all I know is I don't want to stop being your...whatever I am. -JW_

_You are my friend and closest... **only** confidant, John. And I would consider it a singular tragedy were that to end for whatever reason - your marriage, an argument, death. Whatever. But I would also not wish to keep you from something that brings you personal fulfilment. -SH_

_...Though it would pain me greatly to sacrifice our companionship for you. -SH_

_I don't... I don't think I care. -JW_

_Let me clarify. -JW_

_You keep speaking as though my personal fulfilment and marriage are the same thing, but I'm not sure they are. And even if they were, I don't think I care enough about either one any more to justify leaving you. I mean, it sort of feels like I've got both already. -JW_

_I just checked my left hand a second time - I'm not wearing a wedding band. But in all seriousness...you find what we do - **me** \- fulfilling? -SH_

_Short answer? Yeah. I do. -JW_

_Do you know why my girlfriend dumped me? You either know exactly why or you have no idea, but I lied to you in any case. I know exactly why. She said to me, after she went and saw you today, that she understood, and she didn't want to get in the way of us. **Us** , Sherlock, as if we're - do you know how many women have told me that over the years? I mean, obviously that's not - but it feels like we're close enough that it might constitute a marriage in other circumstances. That's all I'm saying. -JW_

_I'm not particularly well-versed in romantic relationships to comment as to the veracity of what you're saying. I simply...am, with you. Did she mean it scathingly, as if to merely insult you, or did she mean it sincerely? -SH_

_Sincerely. And a little sadly. And it made me frustrated as hell, because after hearing it for so long I'm so used to defending myself. Because the truth of the matter is, I'm not gay, I'm really not, but she's right. -JW_

_Right? How is she right? You just said you...I am confused. -SH_

_So am I. But I guess what I'm trying to say is, this relationship, you, fulfil me. And, given the chance, I would like to simply be, with you, as well. -JW_

_And I'm not asking for anything to change. I just wanted you to be a part of what's going on. -JW_

_I...I apologize for being obtuse, but are you...are you saying you have romantic feelings for me? -SH_

_I don't know how to put the feelings I have into words, but I don't want to risk the possibility of frightening you by saying yes in attempt to explain them. -JW_

_You won't frighten me, John. I am simply inept at appreciating flowery metaphor and euphemism when it comes to something like this. -SH_

_Then, maybe, I should just tell you my thoughts as they are? Bluntly? -JW_

_I would prefer and appreciate that, yes. The rest is detail and can be sussed out later. -SH_

_Alright. -JW_

_Sometimes I think about holding you. Just that, nothing more, just keeping you warm. Sometimes I think about sleeping against you as a sort of comfort. Sometimes I think about kissing you, and sometimes I think about family, yours and mine, ours together. And yes, sometimes I think about fucking you. -JW_

_I swm -SH_

_Damn it. Sorry. My hands...well, that's not important. I sometimes think of those things, too. -SH_

_Do you? I don't know if this is what it is, but if there was ever a word for it, I think it would be most accurate to say I love you. -JW_

_Is it? I...I have no idea. I wish I did. I don't enjoy feeling something I can't articulate. That isn't to say I'm not pleased you share my sentiment, I just...I don't know what to do, John. -SH_

_I know. You don't have to do anything, not if you don't want to. It's… well, I'm bloody terrified, it's a terrifying thing. As I said, I'm not expecting anything from you. I never was. It's okay. -JW_

_That's my issue - I want, **need** expectations. I need guidelines. Help. Or I feel as though I'm going to run off in dozens of different directions simultaneously trying to give you what you want. -SH_

_I want you. You're all I want. I don't want anyone or anything different from who you are and what you do as a result of that. I that means you keep acting normal, then fine. If that means you snog me every chance you get, that's fine too. If that means you want to take things slowly because you're unsure, that's all fine. I'm unsure, too. I've never, well, loved a man - anybody - quite like I love you. And I know that's a lot, so I'll stop now, I just...I don't want to have secrets from you. Not anymore. -JW_

_Where are you? More importantly, why isn't it home? -SH_

_I've been pacing up and down Baker Street for twenty minutes now. -JW_

_Stop. -SH_

_Stopped. Can I come home? -JW_

_Idiot! That's what I meant. -SH_

_You're still you. I appreciate that, even when you call me an idiot. -JW_

_I only ever am, John. That you appreciate it means beyond words can describe to me. -SH_

_So don't describe. Words are no good anyway. -JW_

 


	2. Chapter 2

John had given up trying to wrap his head around things concerning Sherlock a long time ago. Now they simply... were. And he understood them, without trying and sometimes even without wanting to. As he pounded gracelessly up the stairs, all thoughts of feelings and the words that couldn't describe such feelings flew out of his head, replaced by a singular thought: Sherlock. The man in question was sitting on the sofa against the wall, turning his phone over in shaking hands. Desperately he tried to plan, to think things through, but all he could see was an empty road leading who-knows-where. He re-read their conversation for the fourth time, trying to convince himself it was real when heavy footfalls announced John's arrival. The man in question stood just inside the door, breathing a bit heavily. He'd run home; tousling of his bangs and upturned collar of his jacket indicated fidgeting from anxiety; his eyes were wide and glittering in anticipation, no hidden agenda or manufactured sentiment. 

"Sherlock," John echoed his thoughts a little breathlessly, and found he didn't need to look far for a response. 

Sherlock stood and crossed the room to meet him. He considered where he'd stopped reading the text conversation and panicked at a sudden thought. 

"When you wrote towards the end...when you thought it was most accurate to tell me you...you loved me," he opened, speaking almost too quickly for comprehension, "I didn't return the sentiment directly, and I am supposed to. However I am unsure whether that appropriately matches my sentiment, and I would never want to make a fraudulent claim and end up hurting you in the long run." He put his hands in his hair in frustration and scratched at his scalp. "You understand, yes? As soon as I have enough data to verify my feelings, I will, of course, respond appropriately. I don't know when that will be because I don't know what I'm doing and I'm trying to plan it out in my head and I can't and-" 

"Stop." John's voice was firm and clear. He planted gentle but strong hands on Sherlock's shoulders, to ground himself and the taller man. When he looked up at Sherlock, he was sure to make eye contact. "Just stop, okay?" This time, his voice was softer. "You're not _supposed_ to do anything. I told you I loved you because I do, I'm pretty sure of it. The truth of the matter is that I've had time to prepare, thinking about all this and what I'm going to say, while you haven't. I just dropped this on you, and while you're brilliant, it's understandable you don't know what to say or think or even feel right now. And speaking of feelings, I've had much more experience with them than you have. It's just a fact, we both know it. So, please, Sherlock. Please believe me: I'm not expecting anything from you. Certainly not right now." 

"So...I am allowed to act as I see fit, then?" he asked distantly as he nodded and took a deep breath to calm himself down. He put his hands to his face in his customary gesture of intense thought. "Then I have a request." 

John cautiously dropped his hands back to his sides, but held the earnest gaze, "Of course." He waited expectantly, letting the other man deliver the request as he saw fit. 

Sherlock frowned and bit his lip. "I find it distasteful that I am asking directly, as it feels contrived and forced, but I suppose that is of little consequence and my interest outweighs any potential embarrassment on my part. I have dual purpose in asking directly: one, I wish to test a hypothesis, and two: I have simply wanted to for some time." He moved to ask his actual question, but found himself stalled anyway by self-consciousness. "I..." he drifted closer to John, looming a bit over him, "May I kiss you?" he asked, very, very quietly. 

John listened patiently and as neutrally as possible to Sherlock's quiet explanation, and when the question came he wasn't quite surprised so much as excited, and perhaps a bit relieved. "Yes, you may," he replied. His steady, reassuring gaze up at Sherlock was starkly contrasted to his rapid-fire heartbeat and clammy palms. Sherlock balked in surprise - he wasn't sure what he expected, even though acquiescence _was_ the most statistically likely answer. 

"Right," he murmured. "I feel compelled to tell you I...haven't, ah, done something like this in an uncomfortably long time. So...there's that." He reached over and took John's hands in his own, staring at them in mesmerized wonder. 

John bit the inside of his cheek when Sherlock took his hands in his own. No doubt he'd feel the clamminess, the incriminating evidence of John's nervousness. He let out a silent but crucial breath, and his intake was slow and steady. "Then perhaps you should let me..." Squeezing Sherlock's hands a bit in a physical warning, John leaned up a little on his toes, moving slowly to give Sherlock time to pull away, though eventually there was no more time and his lips were pressed against the other's. At the very last second Sherlock remembered to tilt his head and close his eyes. His nervousness left him rather stiff, at first, but as he truly began to react, an impossibly powerful supernova of sentiment imploded within him. Sherlock didn't allow himself to _want_ things, at least not like this, and being told he was not only allowed to want it _and_ be told he could have it threatened to put him in emotional overload. This was the final proof that made it truly real. 

The kiss itself was small, unsure, over almost as soon as it began. However, he was immensely pleased to find his hypothesis utterly correct. John's bodily presence calmed him, made him feel not quite so victim to his constantly rushing mind. When he'd first begun entertaining these alien thoughts, he'd wondered if being allowed more intimate contact would enhance that quality from John in himself. It was true, and he couldn't be more relieved. His hands flew to cup the sides of John's face as they parted. 

 "Excellent." 

In all honesty, John didn't know what he was expecting, but Sherlock's lips were softer than he'd imagined - but not too soft, not so much that they were womanly. Just perfect, he decided. Fitting. He also didn't know what he expected when they were to pull away - he hadn't really thought past that, but it certainly wasn't Sherlock's reaction when they parted. He couldn't help but let out a small, breathless laugh, and a calm set over him to feel the man's large, sure hands framing his cheeks. 

"May I make a request, now?" 

Sherlock's eyebrows disappeared into his curly fringe. "Of course you may." This was good, he thought, to start. A system like this. He could just outright ask to show his sentiment, and John could respond. This was going to be a very effective handicap until he had a better grasp of what John wanted and needed from him. At last, he let himself truly be excited about the new paradigm the two of them had created. His eyes lit up and he felt himself grin so broadly it made his face hurt a bit, unaccustomed to being so expressive. Sherlock's grin made John grin, until the two of them were standing close together in the main room and just smiling at each other like idiots, but neither appeared to notice or, at the very least, care. He released one hand in Sherlock's only to bring it up to the man's face, tracing his thumb in a light brush along Sherlock's chiselled jawline and watching his trail intently. 

"I'd like to kiss you again. Longer this time." 

"God yes," Sherlock breathed, leaning in again. "I'm not sure how...not properly, at any rate. Teach me," he murmured, voice low and deep in his throat. That said, he _did_ know he should probably do something with his hands, so he settled on a neutral position resting on John's hips, tightening them a bit in his jumper in anticipation.

Sherlock's response caused a twofold reaction in John. A burst of affection bloomed within him for the man's willingness to learn and experience .That initial reaction was complemented by a surge in attraction as well at the deep baritone of Sherlock's voice – something he'd by now accepted that he would never get tired of. Keeping one hand's fingers laced in Sherlock's John slipped the other back behind the man's head to curl light fingers over the back of his neck. He leaned up again, more intimately this time, brushing their noses as he went. When his lips reached Sherlock's he tilted his head to catch a better angle and leant in more with gentle pressure. 

A heavy shudder ran down Sherlock's back as John pulled him closer, however gently, by his neck. In his mind he listed off all the evolutionary, social, and biological implications of kissing, teasing it apart scientifically. But _this_ was qualifiedly different. Endorphins and dopamine flooded his brain in ways he hadn't experienced naturally in years, pulse skyrocketing in a way that should be unhealthy; all of it chemical, part of the transport, as he'd told himself for so long. He couldn't have been so incredibly wrong; this wasn't mere biology or perfunctory bodily function. This was leaping, searing, involuntary want and need, so many thoughts and emotions curling and soaring amongst each other in an impossible spectrum of colours - art at its most base and explosive, unquantifiable and inexplicable. He felt his jaw part wider, aiming to engulf whatever tiny bit more of John the man would offer to him. John, for his part, had been prepared to move slowly, to allow Sherlock time to adjust to the new sensations - but Sherlock was never one to move slowly, and John should have realized the man had an adjustment rate that blew the learning curve off its metaphorical hinges. He felt Sherlock tease his lips apart slightly, and couldn't help the smile that seeped into the kiss as he experimentally slipped the edge of his tongue along the inside of the man's full bottom lip. 

Sherlock gasped a bit into John's mouth, but recovered quickly enough and didn't pull away. Any description he'd ever read or heard regarding a kiss such as this had puzzled Sherlock for years as to how anyone could find it even remotely attractive - apparently he needed to put more stock in practicum over academia. Not that he'd _ever_ admit that to anyone, even John. Rising to the new challenge, Sherlock twisted his own tongue around John's, inestimably fascinated with the languid sensation it created when they met. 

What...what was he - John found himself releasing a soft sigh into the kiss at the delightful twining of their tongues, initiated by the very man who claimed he hadn't done this in a long time. John would have smirked were his mouth otherwise unoccupied, but now he just rolled it against Sherlock's in a sort of dancing caress, eager to earn a sound, however tiny. Sherlock's eyebrows softened their concentrated focus in response and he made to whimper a bit, but arousal cracked it, making it come out as a low groan. Much as he wanted more of that delectable sensation, he pulled away to breathe properly for a moment. He put his nose against John's brow as he pulled in a few recovering breaths. 

"Promising," he muttered blindly at John, "but requires a larger sample size. More data."

John was about to growl in protest at the pulling away, his blood coursing faster and hotter through his system and the sound of an uninhibited Sherlock emblazoned in his mind. But upon a quick analysis of both their faculties he realized that, however utterly boring considering the alternative, breathing was necessary. He sucked in a couple deep breaths as well, allowing his heart rate to drop slightly nearer to normal. 

"I think I'll be able to accommodate," he replied, smirking even as he panted. Sherlock smirked back, teeth just visible. 

"Glad you're willing to make sacrifices for the cause of science, John," he replied. Emboldened by his successes, he tugged John towards the long sofa against the wall by his jumper. He sat down first, pulling John into his lap. His boldness retreated a bit as he took in John sitting on him so intimately, uncertain hands drifting up and down the other man's torso in what he hoped was an alluring manner. Surprised but not dismayed in the slightest, his eyes travelled down to the just barely hesitant hands move over his chest, and he smiled softly. Taking one of Sherlock's hands in his own, John eased it underneath his own jumper in gentle direction, stiffening momentarily at the cold fingers. He soon put his own hands to work, lazily flicking open the top few buttons on Sherlock's shirt and leant forward to press quick kisses against his closed lips. 

"John," he opened with just a touch of tremor in his voice, "I haven't..." His fingers tightened around the skin of John's ribcage. "Ever." One of his hands slipped out from under the jumper and found John's wrist; he held it gently between his thumb and two fingers, finding comfort in the elevated pulse there. John's eyes, too, helped, blown wide as they were with arousal. Reminded him it wasn't just another empty, unsatisfying dream like the ones that plagued him the nights he actually decided to sleep. John's feverish kisses and steady unbuttoning ceased and he pulled back just enough to see every emotion in Sherlock's blue-grey eyes. His own gaze softened. 

"Ever." The meaning of the word sank in, and the fingers that were hovering over Sherlock's buttoned-up chest floated up to cup his face instead. He traced the pad of his thumb lightly over that sharp cheekbone. "Too much?" 

Sherlock's eyes unfocused and narrowed in brief consideration. "No. At least I don't think so." Feelings of immaturity and inadequacy flooded him. "I would...like to try. I-I can do that, yes? Try?" he asked, voice pained. He stared at his lap. "Fool that I am, not understanding the dynamic of something everyone else seems to grasp intrinsically." 

"Come off it, Sherlock," John murmured, slipping the hand down to curl a few fingers under Sherlock's chin and tilt it up slightly. "If there is one thing you are absolutely not, it's a fool." He gave a small smile. "Of course you can try. I would love to be a part of that, to be with you. And, for the record, nobody grasps it intrinsically. Nobody. I certainly didn't." 

Sherlock tilted his head in surprise. John's interpersonal skill and subtlety was something he had long envied and admired. Surely that had always been a part of his life? He reached up and kissed John's forehead lovingly. 

"You'll have to tell me about it sometime. But not now," he murmured, drawing back down to kiss John properly. He let out a slow, relaxing breath. "Thank you." John truly was a saint - Sherlock never in his life had felt so completely comfortable with another human being to ask what he viewed as a truly stupid question. To admit just how little he knew about something, and how vulnerable it made him feel to be so. "Shall I let you, erm, direct?" 

 John shut his eyes momentarily as Sherlock kissed his forehead, appreciating the simple yet intimate move, and appreciating even more when the man's perfectly shaped lips moved down over his own. He nodded at the question, gazing at him softly but earnestly. 

"I'll need to know what you want, though. If this is... all new, then perhaps we should start small."

"Small...yes, I suppose." he turned his gaze down briefly with self-consciousness. "And as far as what I want," he continued, shaking his head vaguely, "just you. However you feel is best." Confidence slowly eking back, he slipped the pads of his fingers under John's jumper again and settled at the small of his back, kneading softly. John let out a tiny sigh at the little massage, his eyelids dropping almost imperceptibly. 

"Me. You just want me... Bloody hell." John let his head drop slightly forward. "I never could have imagined I'd hear that," he breathed with a little huff of a wondrous laugh, “in _any_ respect,” he added cheekily. He glanced down at their crotches resting snugly close together in suggestion. Instantly Sherlock flushed to the collar, now acutely aware of their position. 

"I have...theoretical knowledge, of course," he said with a soft, baritone rumble of a chuckle. The worst of his embarrassment now past, he was feeling more and more positive about the experience. Even if it wasn't graceful and perfectly executed, it didn't matter. Knowing he could touch anywhere he wanted; finally log an entry for John's taste in the mind palace; follow through on every hope and dream and word he'd wished to conceive or utter...that was enough. One of the hands against John's back slid slowly up alongside the spine, pushing just hard enough to lean John in again for another languid kiss. 

John was fairly sure he'd never seen Sherlock blush before. Oh, was it a sight to see; pretty pink creeping into immaculate porcelain features, eyes soft and shimmery, skin hot to the touch. He wanted to lean in and taste it - but it seemed Sherlock had read his mind. That lovely little action sated him, but only for a few moments. Soon, he pulled back and let his inquisitive tongue have free range, sucking wet kisses across Sherlock's jaw, behind his ear, down his neck, over that delicate expanse of pale skin that he was so eager to taste every bit of. Sherlock's eyes rolled back and fluttered shut and he fell against the back of the sofa. No amount of research or speculation could have prepared him for _this_. His intestines morphed into coiled strands of tension, oscillating with each wave of sensation as John's mouth spread anew across his skin. One hand nestled in John’s hairline; the other slid back down his skin, the tips of the fingers just wedging in under the top of his jeans. He held John tight against him and let his first, real moan tear itself from the depth of his chest. 

Had John not been edged tight against Sherlock by those deliciously sensitizing fingers, he might not have been able to really _feel_ the rumble vibrate up through the man's throat and both their bodies. What a shame that would have been - he was certain he'd never heard anything so incredible or so incredibly arousing. He was positive, now. No arduous sigh, no womanly moan, no feminine squeal could ever compare to the sexually charged power of this man's deep, rumbling voice. John took his time finding Sherlock's sensitive spots, drawing them out with each flick of the tip of his tongue and enjoying every shudder it earned. 

Sherlock, for his part, was trying to keep track of the best spots as John mined them from him, but it was growing increasingly difficult to concentrate. Eventually he gave up and handed over cataloguing of sensation to his subconscious; it would pick the best, most memorable ones anyway. He had plenty of time to revisit and explore more - John was his, now. Something was still missing, however; Sherlock didn't know what it was. The coiling in his torso tightened and sprung delightfully within him, but begged to be accompanied. He shifted a bit to sink into the sofa cushions under him, grazing John's hips against his own. His eyes shot open and threatened to roll out of his skull entirely. Just that tiny bit of movement seemed to douse the growing tension in his hips with molten iron, and his breath leave him in a gruff rush of half-noise. Apparently _that_ was what was missing. John felt the spark in the tiny shift, too, and he let out a rough noise against Sherlock's skin at the contact as well. His brain regained some of its focus and reminded him he had yet to explore the most sensitive parts of the man panting beneath him. 

Pulling back to look - just look - at Sherlock for a moment proved to be all the time for convincing he needed; within seconds he was trailing bruising kisses back to the man's ear before eventually taking the shell between his teeth and tugging. His hands were not idle, however, as they chose to forsake Sherlock's shirt for his trousers, deftly unbuttoning them and yanking them open. The sudden shift to a rougher tack stabbed Sherlock anew with a hotter spike of lust. He, quickly being overcome by need as well, wedged his hands under John's shirt and jumper again once John had finished with his trousers. The other man wriggled furiously in assistance as Sherlock peeled the clothing inside out and off of John, only just managing to throw it over the coffee table before he set in to try his hand at John's flesh. Immediately he became fascinated with the flesh just anterior to the tendon in John's neck, lapping heavily and sucking at it with abandon. 

A low, vulnerable noise snuck out of John right by Sherlock's ear as the man's mouth focused right on his scar tissue. He shut his eyes, shuddering at the sensation of being touched, being handled in such a spot of weakness and ugliness. Glancing down at the generous bulge in Sherlock's pants, John realized he really did want to do this. All of it, someday, but for Christ's sake, at least some of it now. Slipping his fingers past the waistband of Sherlock's pants, he pushed the material down enough to finally release the man's erection. Now aware that this was territory Sherlock had never been in before, John carefully wrapped his hand around the base, stroking up slowly and thumbing over the head, watching Sherlock intently. 

Tension bordering on pain contracted in his gut suddenly, causing him to bite down more heavily than he normally would on John's shoulder. Sherlock’s arms and legs curled themselves around John best they could like so many tendrils of ivy, encasing John almost completely. He thought he'd been breathing heavily seconds ago - now he was outright panting. This was _nothing_ like doing it to himself. Certainly the fact that he couldn't anticipate someone else's movements automatically made it more stimulating, but Sherlock was relatively sure it had more to do with his increasing wonder and appreciation that it was _John_ willing to touch him, be close and share himself with Sherlock in a way he doubted anyone else ever would. A violent shudder ran through John's body as he felt teeth sink into scar tissue, the intense sensation just the right level of almost too much. 

"Should I...?" Sherlock gasped, dropping a hand between John's thighs as well and taking an experimental drag of the fingers up the other man's straining jeans. 

John let out a low, quiet moan and, nodding, dropped his forehead forward to rest down against Sherlock's own flushed one, smoothing his hand up the man's shaft in another gentle tug. His own breath was mingling with Sherlock's at each exhale now, for he was far past being able to control his breathing or much of the rest of his body. Having been given the green light, Sherlock's spidery fingers deftly made short work of John's jeans. He hesitated just for a moment before slipping past the waistband of John's pants, briefly hypothesizing physical characteristics of his friend's - his _lover's,_ he thought rapturously - penis, mostly for his own amusement. As John tugged up on him once again, however, scientific pontificating was cast aside and Sherlock drove his hand in to free it. 'Stocky' was probably the best word for it, as it reflected the general body type of the rest of the man - blunt and well-girthed, if a bit shorter than Sherlock's own. Not that he much cared; the slick, velvety texture in his hands was unspeakably erotic. He mimicked John's movements, trying to get in sync with him. 

“John,” he whimpered up towards him. Involuntarily his hips thrust against John's, now to far gone to completely contain his lust. 

Just one word Sherlock had thought to utter in this moment of intense pleasure and intense exploration and just all around intensity - John. John's mind snapped to attention, latched onto that one word - his name - and it sounded so much better than he'd ever heard it. Perhaps not plain and monosyllabic and common, but blunt and rhythmic and beautiful as it sounded on Sherlock's lips. A surprising pressure inside his chest blossomed to add to the already searing heat beneath his navel, and John leaned over Sherlock on the couch. 

"Lie back. Let me try something," he whispered, voice rough and cracking with arousal. Manoeuvring into position on Sherlock's lap, John held the two of their pricks between his one hand and slowly began to pump. 

Sherlock gave one short, pitched cry as John pulled them together. Before he could analyse the thought, he shot a hand out just under John's own around them. He moved to sit up, but John bent over Sherlock's prostrate form further and took a fistful of the leather next to Sherlock's shoulder. John caught his eyes and thrust once in suggestion. Sherlock felt his pupils all but consume his irises and followed suit, propping his feet up on the edge of the couch and spreading his knees wide to assist their thrusting. 

"John," he whined again, louder and more insistent this time. He let his head fall back against the top of the sofa and the wall. The hand not helping John dug into the other man's thigh. 

John gritted his teeth at the feeling of nails in his skin, and combined with the absolutely needy sound of Sherlock's voice he lost all inhibition. With help from the other man, he held them together firmly and snapped his hips, movements quick and strong. His breathing increased and his head dropped forward onto Sherlock's shoulder as he thrust, sinking his teeth into a pale shoulder in attempt to muffle the garbled moans of Sherlock's name that were beginning to pour out with regularity. Sherlock managed to raise his head and kiss the John’s vulnerable crown pressed against his shoulder. With his better leverage propped against the sofa, he kept perfect time with John's thrusts, his moans rising in pitch and volume rapidly. Just as he felt sure he would leave the realm of raw sensation for pain, it broke and euphoria consumed him, slamming his eyes shut and the only sound being the thudding pressure of the blood in his head. Distantly he felt himself bow at the small of his back and his feet slip off the edge of the couch. Still he seized at an angle against John, unable to think or move or really do anything but go into full nervous overload. 

Immediately John was all over his face, pressing feverish kisses against a feverish complexion, wanting to see Sherlock in his entirety. Squeezing his eyes shut, his breath caught in a violent stutter against Sherlock's forehead, he allowed himself to let go and toppled over the edge after his lover. Sherlock bent forward and melded his mouth with John's as the other man came. Normally he hated abstract speculation, gut instinct - _guessing_. But he should have spoken his assumption when John had mentioned his own the first time. He'd told John he hadn't wanted to speak in error and hurt him, but in truth Sherlock had been too terrified to return the sentiment, even though John had shared his and there was no chance of rejection. More than anything he had been afraid of himself, that he could feel as he did and it be acceptable. So inconceivable in its potency it didn't seem real. Yet here, with John flushed and debauched in his lap, it undeniably was. 

"Love you," he panted, sucking on John's lower lip. "Should have said it before. Lying to myself." He curled his hands around John's skull and turned him to look into his eyes. They were still glazed from orgasm, but shock and fascination were nonetheless palpable in John's expression. "I love you, John." 

John's eyes widened even as his pupils almost engulfed his irises and clouded over in ecstasy. In some part of the landscape of his eyes, a shimmer of love flashed through, almost missed but absolutely recognizable if caught. And when Sherlock murmured those words, clear as ever, that little shimmer grew to envelop them, and eventually lit his entire face. 

"Sher... " he panted, trying to catch his breath as he leaned his head forward and pressed his forehead against Sherlock's. "Sher...love you...too." He folded into Sherlock's body, slumped and boneless against him. Sherlock caught the smaller man and wrapped his arms around him, ignoring the fact it would only aggravate the mess between them. A hand raked up the back of John's head, possessive and affectionate. John was something precious to be hoarded, too perfect to be allowed too far from Sherlock bodily. He heard John gradually regain his breath and wits. 

 "That was transcendent," he murmured against John's ear. Much as he'd enjoyed the sensation of unreserved orgasm, Sherlock had to admit this lasting, stewing sense of intimacy and happiness was almost better. He couldn't think of the last time he'd felt so reassured and placid, not to mention how delightfully quiet his usually revving mind was. He imagined the gentle hum of his mind was at a level no greater than that of the average person - quaint, he thought, but also distinctly relieving. 

Until a short while ago, all concepts of a "relationship" as John knew it revolved around a central idea of caregiving. Always the giver in such a system, John had come to find that all his relationships had been founded on a base assumption of roles - roles with which, until a short while ago, John had seen nothing inherently wrong. These roles were familiar - comforting, even, as he knew exactly what was expected of him. He'd give, provide, make his partner happy, and that in turn would make him happy. 

However, until now John hadn't been with _Sherlock._ Sherlock was not a girlfriend, he was not going to fit into any role, and he wasn't a person with which John was going to have _a_ relationship. He was _the_ relationship. The last one, and if John was being honest with himself. Along with that, John had realised something - relationships did not revolve around caregiving. They were systems of equality, not roles and altruism. _Sherlock_ was certainly not altruistic. But neither, then, was John, and Sherlock allowed him not to be. Their recognition in each other that neither of them necessarily _needed_ to be taken care of, but that both of them would silently do so when desired, was the exact organic result of a connection so profound John knew there could never be any other. That he allowed John to be human in his selfishness and still loved him for it was a revelation of intensity beyond measure. And as he laid there in Sherlock's lap, arms around him, covered in both his and Sherlock's mess, he humbly enjoyed the way their bodies fit together like two simple and equal pieces of the same puzzle. John still hadn't said anything, but Sherlock didn't much mind. 

"You are absolutely magnificent. I can't recall the last time I haven't had to _think_. You've no idea what a gift it is you've given me," he hummed before dropping his head to knead at the skin of John's shoulder with his tongue - not really a kiss, more an extended sampling of John's unique flavour, aimless and indulgent. Sherlock's keen palate noted a slight change in his taste post-orgasm, and began casually flicking through his internal registry on pheromones, searching for one appropriate to attribute the phenomenon to. As the peak of pleasure continued to wash out, greater intimacy rushed in to replace it to the point simply holding John was rapturous. At last, Sherlock could finally understand the irrational destruction one could cause in the name of love, or denial of it. Hundreds of cases across a storied career were suddenly in even clearer focus, now that his detached, intellectual appreciation of 'crimes of passion' was overwritten by true understanding. At the attention once more to his scarred shoulder, John let out a short yet appreciative guttural noise and nudged Sherlock's cheek with his nose. He flushed with warm fondness.

"You're the magnificent one. You're...pale and chiselled and absolutely gorgeous when you come apart like that," he breathed against Sherlock's cheek, pressing a weak kiss to his sharp, defined cheekbone. "I don't think I've ever known something so beautiful." Enjoying the comfortable closeness that lingered in the happy post-coital haze, John tilted his head and caught Sherlock's jaw in a kiss before pulling away. "Clean up," he muttered lazily, reluctantly sliding off Sherlock's lap. Once he half-heartedly hitched his jeans back up, John slowly made his way into the kitchen, wetting a cloth and bringing it back out. Already cleaning himself up on the way, he stepped over and plopped right back down in Sherlock's lap, gently wiping at his taut abdomen. Sherlock watched John work, a curious eyebrow raised at him. 

"Beautiful?" he asked in almost-mocking astonishment. "There are many words to describe how I look, John, but beautiful isn't one of them." 

"You _are_ beautiful," John reiterated absently, working at his task.

Sherlock could feel himself blushing again. To distract himself he began looking over John more closely. In the rush and haze of sex, he hadn't the opportunity to really see what John looked like without clothes on...technically he was still half-dressed to begin with. Unacceptable. 

"I have another request," Sherlock opened hesitantly. He wasn't sure how common this particular desire was, but he hoped John wouldn't find it too odd. "I'd...like to see you naked. Hm, that comes off much more bluntly than I realized it would," he mused, shaking his head. "Anyway what I mean is, I want to...look," he continued, growing frustrated that he couldn't find an appropriate way to articulate what he wanted. "Not necessarily for sexual reasons, I know the limits of my physiology when it comes to refractory time. Just...because I want to," he finished, shrugging. "Though if I could have you again right now, I probably would." 

Having been concentrating on cleaning Sherlock up, John's furrowed brow smoothed out and he looked up. He took in the man before him for a moment, his hesitant words, his sincere expression. Warmth spread through his body, one much different from the burst of orgasm - much softer and longer lasting. He'd finished wiping them down anyway, and tossed the cloth away. 

"Alright," he agreed hesitantly, quietly. "I'm... I'm really actually not much to look at, but... because I love you." John gave a short, curt nod to himself, asserting those last words to himself as the justification to end all justifications. Breathing in steadily, he stepped off Sherlock's lap and slowly removed the last of the clothing shielding his naked form. He tried not to fidget, look too self-conscious, or feel too silly and exhibitionistic as he stood before Sherlock, nothing to protect him but his bare skin against the other's penetrating gaze. 

"Not much to look at? Hardly," Sherlock rebuked as the other man stood. He tilted his head in confusion as John slid out of his jeans and pants self-consciously - what did he feel he had to hide? Silly, really; the human body was fascinating in its infinite permutations of the same, few organ structures. Once he was stripped, he raised his arms in a questioning ‘okay?’ gesture before letting his hands drop. Sherlock stood, eyes lit from behind. 

"Excellent, but in order to do this properly..." he took John by the hand and led him towards his bedroom, "At some point I'll probably ask you to do this while standing, but given how both of our stamina is a bit depleted right now, this will do." He gestured in invitation to his bed. This was fantastic - he'd never had an opportunity to do this with another (living) human being - just observe each and every inch of them that made them just the tiniest bit different from the rest. He'd always wanted to, and the fact John was letting him added an undercurrent of thrill to the exercise he normally wouldn't feel. Perhaps this could be just as enticing as it was educational. 

"Properly..?" John muttered, a bit confused, but allowed Sherlock to lead him to the bedroom, actually glad for the place to rest. He gratefully slid onto Sherlock's bed, lying down with care. John glanced up at Sherlock curiously, watching the man in his excitement and fascination. He was so peculiar in his endeavours, and John hardly wanted to stop him from taking advantage of an opportunity to learn more about other people - well, other live people. Besides, some small thought flashed through his mind, Sherlock was fascinated with _him._ That in itself was enough to send an excited warmth through John. "Alright. Properly, now, I suppose." 

Sherlock's eyebrows contracted. "You're uncomfortable, why? That won't do at all..." he would never want John to do something he didn't want to, but he had acquiesced, hadn't he? Epiphany struck. "You're self-conscious. No need to be. Would it help if I was unclothed as well?" Without waiting for confirmation, Sherlock stripped down to nothing himself, smiling at John for approval. That appeared to ease his mind a little. Sherlock swept over John on the bed and kissed him for a long moment. With that he backed away and circled the bed for a larger angle to begin from. Square - that would be the most apt word to describe John, Sherlock supposed. Well-proportioned between legs and torso, so when wearing appropriate clothes he appeared taller than he was. His legs caught his eye. He mounted the bed again and hovered over John's thighs. Large patches of scarred skin at the knees - ancient, repeated injuries, but still apparent after all this time. 

"You were clumsier as a child...adventurous, but fell over yourself doing it, and often." He took a brief moment to consider what John might have been like as a child. The musculature of his legs was lithe, built more organically than by outright, structured exercise. "You've been in excellent shape your entire life, but you were more gangly in earlier years, until puberty, when you filled out as you are now. People probably expected you to end up taller than you did." More minute scarring on his shins - almost certainly rugby injuries. 

He drifted up to John's face again, smoothing a thumb over the skin both lovingly and to measure its elasticity. "Moderate, not severe acne in your teens. Minimal scarring. Permanent wrinkling in various places due to stress - eyes, mouth, forehead." He ran his fingers down the side of the other man's face in thought. "Too much stress for someone so young," he mused quietly. His gaze darted down to John's shoulder. That would take the longest, so he'd save it for last. He slipped back down and took an arm in his hands. He felt along the ridges of tendon from the top of the arm. "Mild carpal tunnel, probably due to the fact you tighten your hands in and out of fists when you're stressed." Looking back over the entire plane that was John, he could see evidence of stress everywhere. He sat back in sudden repentance, still holding John's arm in his lap. "I don't really help with that, do I?" he asked quietly. Stress took a toll on one's health, and until now Sherlock hadn't considered just how much John experienced because of him, since he was so good at dealing with it. 

"No," John said quickly, sitting up to face Sherlock. "No, you're completely fine. You don't make my life stressful, you make it exciting. I'm just a naturally stressed person." He shifted closer to Sherlock, bringing a hand up to caress it along the other man's jaw. He offered a reassuring smile. "You're right, by the way. About everything. I was an absolute squirrel when I was young - Mum'd almost get heart attacks seeing me climb all over everything, and Harry bugged me for it." He leaned in a little, letting the hand drop from his lover's face to his slender, elegant neck. John thumbed at the spot in Sherlock's neck that held his pulse. "What were you like as a child?" 

Sherlock recoiled a bit, but put his hand over John's on his neck. "I...I enjoyed crawling and climbing amongst the trees and shrubbery on the grounds. I'd slip out from under Mycroft's watch and go, though now I imagine he let me get away with it. He'd eventually find me covered in all manner of detritus, and sneak me back inside to clean me up before anyone noticed. It didn't much do for a Holmes to be mucking about in the garden," he said, a touch of bitterness lacing his voice. "Other than that, I suppose you can imagine; reclusive, studious. Spent a lot of time daydreaming." He shook himself from his reminiscing and furrowed his eyebrows. He didn't much relish recalling his childhood. A long gash along John's side caught his gaze; he dropped away from John's hand and bent to inspect it. "What is _this_?” he asked with interest, running a long, pale finger along it. Now this was something to be kept and relished – reading the open book of John's life on his skin. 

John's vague smile at Sherlock describing his youth was wiped off his face when the other man bent over to examine a relatively deep gash in his side, old but nevertheless striking. He sighed a moment, seeming to hesitate as he continued to thumb along the tendons in Sherlock's pale neck. He focused intently on the path his fingers were making across his lover's skin as he began. 

"Afghani bomb. They fill it with all kinds of metal scraps and shrapnel. Cheapest way to add weight and maximize damage. Big piece got me, right along here." He mechanically traced his thumb along the gash in his side, then finally broke out of his trancelike gaze and emotionless voice. "At least, that's what I tell people." He laid back down on the bed, folding his arms above his head and staring at the ceiling. "My da' did it, a long time ago." 

Sherlock drew his hand back abruptly as if scalded. "What?" he asked, incredulous. Forget the potential horror of John being an abuse victim...how did Sherlock not _know_? Or even suspected? Never in all his time with John had he even suspected something like this, and he was the king of observation. But there it was, plain as day in his face and vocal tone. He knelt alongside John, wide-eyed and utterly at a loss for words. 

 "I...I'll stop. I am so sorry. You needn't say anything more if you prefer." He spread a hand across John's chest awkwardly, unsure how to give the proper amount of reassurance and comfort...if it was even wanted. John turned his eyes up to Sherlock and measured the response. After a long bout of silence, he spoke. 

"I haven't told anyone that, ever." He sat up, hesitating a moment. But only a moment - when John looked into Sherlock's face, he wasn't uncomfortable or reluctant in the slightest. He suddenly knew he wanted to share everything. 

"He didn't usually leave scars like this. And it usually wasn't directed at me. This," he traced along his scar again, "is from when I was eighteen. He...used to get into drunken rages, you know, and Mum didn't know what to do, but she always tried to protect us. Anyway, we'd planned it for a while, but when it came time that both Harry and I would be out of the house, we kicked him out. He smashed his bottle and got me across the side - it was okay, though, it was worth it." John shrugged, glancing down at his naked lap and fidgeting. "I was always scared to death I'd turn out to have his temper," he admitted quietly, before a look of realization came over him and he looked up again, taking Sherlock's face between his hands and holding his gaze. "I'm okay, you know. It was a long time ago." 

Sherlock hovered over his face, cupping it in his palm. He opened his mouth to speak, but wasn't sure just how to begin. "You...you are the most patient, caring human being I have ever met," he began, "That you put up with me at all is a minor miracle. You only use your anger to protect or help others - even for all the frustrated shouting you've done at me, I would never believe you'd fly off the handle. I find it incredible you could muster the courage and risk yourself for the sake of your family like that, so young; now I understand how you so easily put yourself in harm's way for me. It...also explains your hesitance earlier at my poorly-crafted joke," he said with more than a little shame, "If I'd known, I'd never have made light of it. In fact I'm a bit disgusted with myself I didn't even have an inkling, and spare you the necessity of telling me yourself." He leant down and kissed John passionately, to make up for the rest of the sentiment he couldn't articulate at the moment. John gratefully kissed him back, lifting his head off the bed to push back gently. He tilted his head to deepen the kiss, lapping languidly at the inside of Sherlock's teeth. Reluctantly, he pulled away just to murmur against Sherlock's lips. 

"You didn't know because I didn't want you to, not because you couldn't. I think, we've become so attuned to each other, that...you didn't see it because I didn't want you to, and some part of you knew that. But please...don't blame yourself. You have saved me far too many times to take the blame for anything." 

"Perhaps," Sherlock hummed in agreement, shifting his position so he was sitting at an angle to John's body. "Referring to me as a saviour is far too kind, John. It's entirely selfish - I simply can't operate as I once did without you." He laid a palm over the offending strip of paler skin and rubbed it soothingly. Unsatisfied with such a seemingly weak show of affection, he bent and placed a languid, open-mouthed kiss to it instead; John had apparently liked that earlier on his shoulder, so he hoped desperately the action would translate well here. All his earlier bitterness over reminiscing about his own family had evaporated; his parents had been neglectful to the point of all but bodily absence, but at least they'd never physically harmed him. A hand searched blindly on the opposite side of John as Sherlock kissed until it found his; he intertwined their fingers and held it fast. John let out a low, embarrassingly needy sound as Sherlock's mouth gave gracious attention to his scar. He squeezed the hand that was linked in his own, clutching at the other man's forearm with his other hand. 

 "If you're selfish... then so am I..." he managed to gasp out, eyes rolling back a little at the ministrations to the sensitive, marred skin, "You know... you saved me... as much as I... saved you..." He smiled in his state. "We can be selfish together." 

Sherlock pulled back as a warm, rich sense of possession curled within him. Baring his teeth in an almost predatory smile, he lazily picked up the nearer of John's arms and inspected it with his critical eyes.

"Hopelessly calloused between rugby and the military," he said slowly, his voice little more than a rumble. As he looked, he began smearing kisses across his knuckles and the inside of his palm. "It's been broken...twice? Poorly cared for both times. University injuries - before you were a doctor, yet after your mother would have noticed and just taken you to a hospital," he continued, now making his way down the other man's arm with his mouth. He ushered John to sit up with a grunt and a gentle pull at his arm. Pausing only long enough to move so he could sit immediately behind him, Sherlock began again. His hands crept up the sides of John's head and nestled in his hair. "I'd always assumed your bearing and straight-edged look were leftovers from military training, but you've always been this way - forever at attention, ready to counter against any threat and always aware of your surroundings..." He drifted around nibble and suck at John's ear from behind. "You needn't do so here. However much you think you're relaxed right now, you're not - it's in your shoulders, neck, spine." He trailed a thumb over the peaks of vertebrae. "Let go, John," he suggested just above a whisper. 

John had closed his eyes, focusing on the trail of Sherlock's mouth along his arm, when the other man slipped behind him. Caught by surprise, John inhaled sharply at the sensations shooting through him at the attention to his ear, and shivered when he felt a single thumb run over his spine. Acutely aware of Sherlock's possessiveness, John decided to take his lover's own advice and leant back into Sherlock's touch, arching his back so that his spine made a new shape to trace over. 

"Let go," he murmured, both repeating what Sherlock had suggested and commanding himself to heed to it. A smile bent Sherlock's face as he felt John bow a bit into him. His hands travelled down to grasp his hips and pull John bodily closer to Sherlock's core. He continued his slow ravishing of the line along John's shoulders, eventually back over the splotch of risen skin. 

"As for this...perhaps I should keep my deductions to myself," he offered quietly. And there were many - calibre of bullet, distance from which he was struck and which side, difficulty of recovery and unspoken, long-lasting effects. But childhood trauma was one thing - this was a near-death experience. Even Sherlock knew prudence was required. He splayed his hands across John's torso and held him close, willing the other man to relax further. John allowed Sherlock to pull him close, savouring the contact and sense of protection that came with the other man encasing John in his arms. He leant his head back against Sherlock's slim shoulder and closed his eyes. 

"And people call you insensitive," he replied warmly, turning his head to press a kiss to the hollow of Sherlock's neck. "I love you, Sherlock Holmes." John turned forward again, leaning against the other man's thin frame for back support. When he spoke again, his voice was lazy and sweet. "You really do see right through me, you know. It's a mystery how you ever thought me interesting enough to be going on with in the first place. I was never any enigma." 

"You are indeed not any kind of enigma - though I mean that in the most positive way possible. You rarely have an ulterior motive or engage in subterfuge...you are honest and straightforward, and that is immensely refreshing. Most people are petty and derivative, but attempt to shellac themselves with empty purposes and things to make them seem more than what they are. What makes you interesting is that you defy what logic would predict of a man as straightforward as you. Just because you are not an enigma doesn't mean you're derivative," he said, uttering the last word with distaste. He looked down over John's shoulder at his hands, turning them over in examination. "And I...love you as well," he finally said, very quietly. It was very different to speak the sentiment now, without raging lust to tear down his inhibitions. John listened to Sherlock's rational defence with a calm, quiet happiness that was only augmented when the other man uttered the three-letter phrase at the end of it. However hesitant it was, John knew it was sincere, and that would always be more than enough. 

"Well... thank you," he said in a tone soft enough to match Sherlock's. "I am always delighted, though never surprised, at the acuity of your depth." To demonstrate the simplicity of his emotions, a feat which words could never hope to achieve, John turned his head and pressed a kiss to the corner of Sherlock's mouth as the other examined his hands. 

"I'm merely speaking the truth," Sherlock responded, flushing a bit. He let his hands roam the plane of John's upper body, measuring his reactions based on where he touched. "How long have you been waiting to tell me everything you did?" he asked, sitting up and shuffling around so he sat in the other man's lap. He continued his examination, opting to merely use fingers instead of an open palm. John let his mind drift as he closed his eyes, brain following Sherlock's fingers as they made trails and patterns along his own torso. His breath hitched slightly when Sherlock's thumb slid over a sensitive nipple, and he opened his eyes. 

"A long time," he replied truthfully. "The topic never came up. It never seemed pertinent, or... necessary, really. And I didn't really want to let myself willingly hand over information so personal." He smiled faintly. "But I was just being silly. Trust issues." John closed his eyes again, soothed by Sherlock's motions. "What about you? Do you have something like that?" 

"You're asking the reclusive, embittered genius if he has trust issues?" Sherlock asked with a snicker. "I think you know the answer to that. But insofar as keeping the truth of my feelings from you...I suppose I first entertained the thought not long after our first meeting with Moriarty. At the time, I simply wrote it off as hysteria due to the fact you nearly died." He let his thumb round John's nipple again, enjoying the tiny shiver in the small of his back from it. "But the feeling never faded. If anything, it only grew more insistent." 

"Hysteria," John repeated, mulling over the incident in his head. Yes, that was a very accurate word for what had happened. Hysteria. "You almost died, too, you know." He was quiet for a moment. "And I almost let us." John's head tilted a little subconsciously as Sherlock thumbed over his nipple again, a small twang of pleasure spiking his system. "I first felt, well, _something,_ the second day I knew you. When I shot that man. I didn't know what it was, and it proceeded to terrify me for the next few years, but there it was. I've been a damn fool." 

"Yes, we both almost died, true, but it wasn't a question of 'letting'. We both knew we were trapped, and agreed that, as long as Moriarty died, death was a small price to pay. I've never felt such a strong kinship with anyone than that moment - all I had to do was look at you, and you knew. I am, of course, glad for that fortuitous phone call, but if it had ended there...there are worse ways to die." Sherlock briefly rested the side of his head against John's in reassurance. "So you've doubted since we met?" Yet another strike against his skills, not being able to pick up a hint of it all that time. John apparently had some natural talent to hide what he truly wanted kept secret from him, even though they were so close. "You're no fool, however," Sherlock continued once he shook off the surprise and returned to all but petting John, "As you've said repeatedly and quite vociferously, you're not gay. Coming to terms with the exception to the rule would take time." He smirked down at him. "But how long have you known?" he asked, bending down to knead at John's neck with his mouth while lazily circling his abdomen with his right hand, testing the efficacy of multiple stimuli. John let his eyelids slide half-closed, tilting his head back to allow Sherlock room to explore his neck with that delicious and delightfully talented mouth. 

"I knew... I really knew the day you jumped off that bloody building. For better or worse, I'll always remember exactly what I was thinking that day. The whole time it struck me as painful and obvious, the way I felt betrayed by the fact that you never even asked if I wanted to jump with you." He let his head drop to the side, eyes finally slipping fully closed. "After that it was quite simple, really. Being without you only rubbed it in. I had dreams, nightmares, about you, for so long that I'm fairly sure you were burned into the back of my eyelids. I knew it then, I knew it on my wedding day, and I knew it when I lost her - them. The both of them. We were going to name him after you, you know." His voice cracked at the end, and John took a deep breath. "Well. If there's one thing life insists on proving to me, it's that here, with you at 221B, is and always will be the only home for me." 

Sherlock froze mid-kiss on John's skin. He pulled off abruptly, hands flying to his sides to hold him up from behind. "Them?" Sherlock asked incredulously. "You...you never told me she..." Horror dawned on his face as John's eyes flicked aside, suddenly remembering himself and his as-yet unspoken circumstances. Silence filled the suddenly-cavernous space between them.


	3. Chapter 3

When Sherlock had come home, it hadn't been long after Mary's death; he had heard from Mycroft about the marriage, but his return was too soon for his brother to warn him about her subsequent death, as they kept only sporadic contact, and Sherlock was too eager to return home to check. The grand reunion he'd been hoping for had sent John into, essentially, an emotional coma for weeks, it having been simply too much to lose someone important and gain back another in such rapid succession. He had been able to pick up bits from deductions, though it was difficult to read him given how utterly broken John had been. And as the weeks passed and John acclimated, Sherlock spent several nights up with him talking, or simply being there with him while he fell apart. That had been almost a year ago. Pregnancy had never been mentioned, however. Perhaps it had been far too painful to mention until now. Slowly, John's reticence subsided, recalling his earlier words about no long keeping secrets. His shoulders slumped and he sighed. 

 "I wasn't very...despite what she would tell you, I wasn't a good enough husband for her. Did you know, the night before our wedding, we talked about you? I laid there with her in my arms and we talked about how she may have been mine, but I wasn't hers. But she wanted me to be happy so badly, she... She didn't tell me there was a chance she wasn't strong enough. And, well." He shrugged, his shoulders falling even more as the bags underneath his eyes somehow grew more defined. John looked up. "You didn't understand it at the time, but I meant it when I said that those were the worst three years of my life. Worse than any childhood, worse than any war. But, in the end, you came back. And you didn't make it all better, but... you have always been enough." 

Sherlock slipped his arms back around John's shoulders haltingly. He had no idea what to say. "I...am honoured you wanted to name your son after me," he said slowly, "and I'm sorry I didn't get to meet either of them. I've never much been fond of children, but yours I would have made an exception for." If he hadn't left, maybe he could have spared...no, John would be _dead_ , otherwise. Empty hubris. Nonetheless he felt powerless to help ease John's suffering. "Am I...really enough?" he asked quietly, "Because I feel completely unqualified to be so right now. Really, since I returned." He tightened his hold around John to comfort himself. 

Arms encircled him, but it was much less a comforting move than an attempt to be comforted. He frowned and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's long midsection, pulling him closer into his lap and kissing him gently. "You are most certainly enough. You're more than enough. God, Sherlock..." John trailed off, reaching a hand up to brush his thumb along the man's sharp jawline, his eyes fixed to Sherlock's. He shook his head slightly. "Did you know that Mary was the one who suggested we name him after you? I went crazy without you. I really did. Everyone could see it, even my wife. I _am_ a damned fool.” 

 "Mary suggested it? A woman willing to feed my ego - I would have definitely liked her," Sherlock joked with a single, reserved chuckle. "But in all seriousness, to accept you and love you despite your feelings about me...she must have been a very kind, giving person. Much more so than myself." He gave John a small, almost shy smile. John returned it briefly before his eyes clouded again. 

 “I didn't realize how much a part of me you were until you jumped. And then... I just knew. It was so simple. Because when you died, I died too." 

 Sherlock took John's hand from his face and turned it over in his, once again becoming fascinated with it rather than look at John himself. "I hope you understand that, had any other avenue been open to me, I would have taken it," Sherlock replied weakly. "Anything else, but...there was none. It had to be absolute to be believable. I had to make you mourn, and that will forever be my greatest regret, especially now that I know what has come to pass since I left. Even if Mary was here with your son, and you were perfectly happy, I would still regret making you suffer however long in the wake of my departure." He bit his lip and hesitated to ask his next question, jaw hanging open slightly. 

 "If she were here...what would you have done when I returned? Surely you loved her, yes? You wouldn't have just...kept her around and then left her alone once you realized I wasn't dead. Would you have ever told me anything of your feelings?" It was all so incredibly complicated, at least to Sherlock, but he also would readily admit that his interpersonal interaction limit was limited to maybe two people at once, and only under ideal circumstances. 

"I did love her. She was clever and wise and beautiful and caring and _lovely_...and I loved her. And I wanted so much to be hers - God, did I want to be hers. But I just...wasn't. She knew about you, like I said. I have the feeling everyone did, to some degree, but she knew the second I told her about you. Said she could see it in my eyes, my face. Said everything about me was bursting with you, and she'd never even met you. God, was she shrewd - not like you, but - you'd have approved." John paused, swallowing. "She just knew, and she understood. About how you can't help who you fall for. I always felt so terrible." He let out a long sigh, considering. "If she were still here, if _he_ were still here...I'd...I'd have an obligation to my son, but..." He looked up, eyes searching, "I'd have a bigger obligation to myself." 

 Sherlock shook his head. "I'm inclined to disagree. If you had told me about your feelings...I'm not sure if I would have shared my own. Even if I had, I would insist you stayed with her. I would never claim to call you an absentee parent, ever, but the fact of the matter would be that you wouldn't have been present at times you perhaps needed to be, and you and I both can attest to the harm that brings. We would have been...a rather strange family unit...but I think we, all four of us, could have managed, assuming Mary would be able to handle me in actuality, not just in theory. At the very least, I would have tried for your sake." He shrugged self-consciously, unsure how John would react to the idea. It certainly was odd even to his mind, but he was far more willing to accept odd circumstances than most of the populace. John's brow creased in thought, but his lips miraculously twisted up into a small, vague smile. 

 "The four of us...Well, I can certainly say there'd be some explaining to do to the poor boy. I think, though," he continued carefully, "that he'd be the luckiest boy in the world. I can't think of anyone I'd need outside of the three of you." John sighed, tracing his fingers across Sherlock's smooth cheek. "But it was always you. I just didn't always see." 

 Sherlock caught John's wistful sigh and winced. "Apologies," he muttered, running a finger down John's chest absentmindedly, "it's pointless and hurtful to make you pontificate on something that can't happen." With a gentle nudge, he gestured for John to lie on his back again and Sherlock spread himself across the top of him, bracing against the mattress on his elbows. 

 "It has always been you for me, as well. The only - never have I felt so compelled to be close to another living being. I regret it has taken me this long to speak of it, and so hesitantly, now that it's all out in the open we have all the time in the world. For once, I want to slow down and enjoy it." He bent down and pressed heavily with teeth and tongue into John's mouth, once again relying on action as opposed to words to speak his sentiment most accurately. Unable to completely contain himself, he dipped his hips into John's just the slightest to add an edge to their kiss. 

John's body was nearly Pavlovian in its receptiveness to Sherlock's form, warming at every contact and arching slightly into every touch in attempt to get ever closer. He automatically parted his lips for the man's insistent tongue, his own rising up to meet it. John was growing attuned to Sherlock's body in a way he hadn't with any other partner; he couldn't just feel out the shapes and curves and nuances of Sherlock's body, he could _sense_ them. He didn't just see, he knew they were there, knew their position and structure and density and texture - everything - without ever having to look. Even as they kissed, and he curled his arms tighter around the man's waist to hold him comfortably in place atop him, John was figuring out how much pressure to yield, where on the slender body he should clutch, how long it would take him to do so. Yet it wasn't clinical in the slightest; it was instinct. And when he felt Sherlock barely dip into him, the slight bucking in response - well, that was instinct, too. 

 Sherlock's breath left in a shuddered rush as John gently reciprocated. It took so little to captivate him; he knew that was due to some extent because of his inexperience, but he fervently wished he could stay close to this amount of sensitivity indefinitely. John was capable of eliciting all kinds of unique behaviour from him, so the logic was sound it would extend here as well. Even as John held him, he could still feel strain and reservation in his muscles and tendons - but they'd just had a rather unpleasant conversation. It made sense John would tense again despite Sherlock's earlier efforts as they talked. He ground against John a bit more to arouse him further. Then, with measured direction, he had John roll over and Sherlock sat just under his hips. Long fingers wandered over the spread of John's back, testing where to begin before laying in heavily with palms into both his shoulders, urging the tension to leave him again. As he worked, John made little noises of happiness that made Sherlock's gut flutter, and grew increasingly distracted. He readjusted the way he sat so his hardening length was nestled in the crevice of John's arse. Sherlock made his way down John's back, kneading away tension and, for his own satisfaction, occasionally rutted against John. It became an amusing challenge for him to remain focused on John all while steadily driving himself mad with arousal. He sincerely hoped John didn't mind the sudden experiment on his part. 

 A low, guttural noise formed in the back of John's throat as he felt Sherlock's knowledgeable hands work over the knots of tension in his shoulders. He sank further into the bedspread, letting garbled, appreciative noises pour out of him unrestrained, a little yelp of surprise spiking in pitch when the foreign sensation of Sherlock rubbing against him just in the crease of his arse. Slightly shocked, John felt his own prick give a jump at the thought, and began rocking slowly, alternating at each stroke between rutting into the mattress to relieve himself and nudging his arse back against Sherlock's own length. As Sherlock's hands smoothed over a particular knot in John's back, he let out a sharp moan of "there," tensing up and dipping his pelvis enthusiastically so he rubbed down against Sherlock. A pleasant spasm rung through Sherlock in response, causing him to pause for a moment. Once passed, he lashed down his arousal so he could focus on working out the knot. Though Sherlock didn't allow himself to reciprocate, John continued bucking back into him gratefully. After what felt like an eternity, Sherlock finally felt the tissue give under his fingers; almost instantly he dropped his hands to hold John's hips and ground in on him hard, groaning in relief. He bent down to begin smearing kisses along John's spine, hands on either side of his body to give him leverage as he continued rutting against him. 

 “Better?" he asked roughly, teasing the small of John's back with the tip of his tongue. 

 "So so so much better," came John's unbridled reply, voice luxurious and drawn-out. He hardly had to move anymore to feel the delightful friction of the sheets against his erection, as Sherlock was rutting into him with impressive and admittedly highly arousing enthusiasm. The effect only heightened at hearing the pleasured edge in the man's voice, that low rumble never failing to hypnotize him. If thick, rich dark chocolate had a sound...Suddenly he had to have so much more. 

 "Please say something, anything, please - ungh." John's embarrassing, garbled speech was mercifully cut short by Sherlock's own tongue against the sensitive natural curve in his back, the lightest touch from which sent goosebumps fleeing across the expanses of John's skin. Sherlock's eyebrows rose in amused surprise. Being careful not to jostle them out of position, he took advantage of his greater height and pulled up close as he could to John's ear from behind. 

 "What would you like to hear?" he asked, pitching his voice a bit lower than usual on purpose. He honestly had no idea what to say, so he decided to fake his enthusiasm until he came up with something appropriate. As he scoured his brain, another shiver conveniently took him to stall for a moment. "At some point," he continued a bit breathlessly, "we're going to have to follow through on this completely. But I think...I think I want you to have me." 

 As he spoke the sentiment, he realized how true it was. Much as Sherlock loved control, there was an appeal in giving up entirely to John, and only John. He supposed John would consider it a gift as well, being given complete trust like that, and would appreciate it immensely. He thrust again, the slick and swollen flesh of him folding a bit deeper into John each time. He looked down at himself in curiosity and promptly had to shut his eyes and fist his hands in the sheets, fighting not to come from the inexplicably erotic sight at his hips. The high he'd achieved couldn't be descended, so Sherlock began pressing in a bit faster and fell upon John again with his mouth, more ravenous this time. His hands wandered John's weathered skin, pricking him with fingernails as lost further control. 

 "Augh...John," he grunted, "hold out...just a bit longer." 

 If Sherlock's admission of wanting John to be the one to take him wasn't enough, the heavenly shocks of tooth and nail that were just light enough to set him on edge were enough to do John in. He tilted his head back to rest against Sherlock's shoulder, eyes rolling back - and then there was that beautiful baritone again requesting that he hang on and everything in John's body screamed at him not to listen but that sound was just too lovely to ignore... His eyes popped open and he shook slightly, trying to hold back as much as possible. John turned his face to bury it into Sherlock's neck beside him, unconsciously clenching a little in attempt to ward off his impending orgasm. 

 "Let go, love," he managed in a muffled tone - a sentiment that seemed constantly appropriate for the both of them. 

 It had been Sherlock's intention to flip John back over, but his tiny thread of a voice commanding him right at his ear was too much to ignore. He pressed the side of his head best he could against John's and came in stuttered, whimpered fits. He continued his thrusting, as John hadn't come yet himself. Placidity once again reigned in his head; the calm it brought seemed to align everything in his mind in perfect order. No need to analyse and pick at and investigate - he simply understood. True certainty, no matter how fleeting, brought to him by the humble man panting and mewling below him. He pulled back just enough to assault John's shoulders and neck with post-coital, uncoordinated lips, murmuring John's name in the hopes of ushering him over the precipice as well. 

John should have known. It was staring him right in the face, but he should have understood that with Sherlock's intense attention to detail and certain objects, it would make sense that he was an attentive lover. All those times he never bought the groceries, never bothered with personal boundaries, never cared for compassionate tact - that was with everyone else. But with John? Sherlock kept pressing against him even after he'd already come. He smeared kisses all over the landscape of John's shoulders and neck. He repeated John's name over and over, and if all that wasn't enough on its own, the fact that Sherlock was doing all of it without a single selfish thought in mind but _John_ was enough to send him over. Arching back against Sherlock's body, John kept his face pressed into the man's neck, muffling the cry of his name as he spilled onto the sheets. 

Sherlock slid an arm under John and held him at the abdomen just in time as he came, holding him fast as his body arched into him. He rolled John over once he flopped back to the mattress, spent but nonetheless wanting to see his flushed, glazed expression of rapture once again. To think he, Sherlock, could do that to another person - _John_ \- made him feel the most human he probably ever had. 

 "I meant that," he breathed, pressing into the side of John's jaw with his own. "I want you to have all of me. There is little of me I share with the world in general, but you...you must have every last piece. It can't be any less, if I must love you for Mary and your son, as well as myself." Because that's how he saw it, now. Mary had kept John for him while away, given her whole self for someone who could never give it back, and despite whatever anyone said about Sherlock not understanding sentiment, he could certainly appreciate an unequal distribution when he saw one. And he could also respect such a valiant show of effort, even if he didn't understand why on Earth anyone would do something so seemingly foolhardy. 

 Though he wasn't sure how or at what point he started, John was crying. Silent, tearful tremors took him as he pressed his face into Sherlock's shoulder and clutched tight to him. It should have been absolutely humiliating – a naked, shivering man crying to his lover in a post-coital state..but it wasn't. This was Sherlock, and John didn't care what he looked like because it honestly didn't matter. The man he honestly loved was taking on the load of those he couldn't and didn't get the chance to. Mary and his son may have been gone, but Sherlock was here, Sherlock was real, and Sherlock was offering him everything. John began pressing messy, tearstained kisses all over the other man's chest, shoulders, an d neck, every patch of skin he could reach. Between kisses, he managed to croak, “You will have all of me, too.” 

 At first Sherlock balked in panic, afraid he'd shared a sentiment he wasn't welcome to indulge in, but once John spoke, his mind was put at ease. "I can already tell you do," he replied easily, smiling. "but it's less obvious when I do, so I figured speaking the sentiment would leave no doubt. I know perfectly well how difficult I am to deal with...you're just the only person I feel compelled not to act as such with. Well, as much as I am able." He pulled John away from his frenetic kissing gently to brush aside the tear tracks. "No more of that," he said, "I am merely doing exactly as is necessary. You've spent entirely too long suffering, and I know no other way to ensure you remain happy as possible, long as possible." He carded a hand through John's hair repeatedly, watching his eyes, waiting for the crystalline blue to make itself more clearly apparent as John calmed down and his crying abated. 

 John lifted his eyes as Sherlock wiped his tears, the blue in them intensified but clouded by the water, and red-rimmed. As they slowly began to clear again, the gaze with which he fixed Sherlock became more steady and sure. Finally he nodded, a tiny movement but a nod nonetheless, and reached a hand up to trace along Sherlock's jawline as if it were the softest thing he'd ever touched. 

 "I like who you are," he said finally, his voice clearing more and more with each syllable uttered. "I like that you're different. I like that you don't apologize for it, and despite what I'll say to the contrary at any other time--" He let out a soft laugh. "I like that you're sometimes difficult. You wouldn't be Sherlock if you weren't." 

 Sherlock gave a small, self-conscious smile and turned away to stare at the blankets around them, momentarily unable to respond. "As I told you before you came home, that you appreciate all that of me means more than I will ever be able to articulate." Their conversation via text felt decades past, now, strangely enough. He still had an experiment he'd been running sitting on his microscope, waiting. They had a meeting with Lestrade tomorrow, John likely wanted dinner...the world still spun, kept going, utterly uncaring to the massive shift Sherlock's personal universe had experienced in the past...good God, maybe two hours? This was all so new and of such great importance to him, his sense of inadequacy returned. The universe expected him to return to what he was doing, just the same as ever, with John merely attached in a new way, but Sherlock suddenly didn't know if he could. Was he able to give John what he so desperately needed, along with everything else he already normally did? Much of that contradicted directly with a proper, standard definition of a relationship. 

 "The work..." he began quietly, unsure, "does that need to change?" He looked up and met John's eyes, honestly at a loss as to what the answer was, but he was, he realized, mysteriously okay with it if it needed to change. Or even be abandoned entirely. That thought made his gut drop out the bottom. As John grew steadier and steadier, he watched Sherlock conversely grow less and less so. He dropped his hand from tracing Sherlock's face in favour of resting it familiarly on the man's knee, tilting his head up to offer a grounding gaze if it was needed or desired. 

"Sherlock," he began quietly. "I know that...the work, it's a big part of you. It's a big part of your life, and I know it keeps you interested and feeds your energy. I know you love it. You're bloody brilliant at it. You don't have to stop doing it, not just for me, not just because we've become something...well, more. I can still help you with it, still be there to assist you when you need assistance. None of _that_ certainly has to change, not if you don't want it to. We'd just be in a relationship, too." He smirked a little. "Half the Yard thinks we already are, and I'm sure somewhere there's a betting pool." 

 "Are there not greater demands of me, now we have this between us?" Sherlock asked, a little confused. "I know you enjoy doing what we do, don't worry about that, but...typically there are time demands for...interpersonal bonding, or some such thing." He waved his hand vaguely to accentuate how little he understood about the topic on which he was speaking. "If...if it were up to me, I would simply continue exactly as we have...though perhaps with a significantly larger concern for your safety than I already have, I suppose. The time I spend with you while working cases are what make up my fondest memories, and I have long considered it a bonding experience. But I know most people separate their work from social activities. I don't know if you feel the same. That what you get of me through the work is enough." He'd taken to crossing his legs where he sat, staring at his naked lap and chewing the inside of his cheek in thought and worry. John's eyes alighted in comprehension, and he nodded slowly. 

 "I see what you're saying." He smiled. "Well, I can tell you that no matter what, I can never get enough of you. That's just my soul needing yours, and it will never be enough. But yes, work is good bonding. I don't...I don't know how much experience you have with relationships, but I'll tell you that from my experience, people do carve out a few or so occasions a week to just spend time together. No work, no responsibilities, no outside dynamics. Just two people enjoying each other's existence. If you wanted that, I'd like to take you out sometimes. Because quite frankly, I'm a bit selfish when it comes to you, and sometimes I'd like to just have you to myself." 

 Sherlock looked up again, tilting his head in confusion. "I...I appreciate your sentiment, but I don't understand. You and I spend, well, almost all of our time together, between work and the flat. Like day before yesterday, when I composed all morning and you read the paper. Isn't that the same as what you just described - enjoying each other's existence? Or at the very least just now, with having sex?" His eyes narrowed. "I feel as though I'm missing something vital that creates the discrepancy." More than embarrassed or feeling stupid, Sherlock was utterly clueless as to the difference between any of the situations he'd just described, but this arena was where John shone and was more than willing to explain it to Sherlock despite the fact it was common knowledge, all without being diminutive or irritated. John frowned, thinking, his tongue darting out to lick his lips in an unconscious habit. 

"Of course I love the little things, like when I read the paper and you compose...but there is a difference between being around each other and being _with_ each other. I enjoy being around you, being in your presence, of course I do. But we already do that. I'm talking more about...intimacy. Things like having sex. Being wrapped up in each other. Doing things together because we want to, not because of work. Do you see?" He searched Sherlock's gaze for any hint of hesitance or revulsion. 

 Sherlock's eyes unfocused a bit as he considered. "Well it should go without saying how I feel about having sex with you," he opened with a smirk, "but you know I've never much been one for...pedestrian activities like the cinema, or candlelit dinners. That said, given the activity is sufficiently interesting, I have no objection to just doing something for the sake of spending time with you. Quite the opposite, in fact." He tilted his head towards John. "Did you think I would be adverse to that? Why would I be? I very much enjoy doing things with you, regardless of the monotony of it. Except for the time we had to search that landfill. I'm afraid even if you'd been in high spirits, you couldn't have made that fun or interesting." 

John grinned despite himself. "I remember," he conceded. "It wasn't the most pleasant of things we've had to do. But that's the thing, Sherlock. If things aren't fun for you, I don't want to put you through that just for my own enjoyment. That's not how relationships work." He sighed, scooting forward to reach out and bring a hand to Sherlock's face, cupping his cheek. "If this thing works, it'll be because we both make changes. Not huge ones, but big enough. I'll adjust my expectations of a normal relationship, and you'll adjust yours. Compromise. _That's_ how relationships work." 

 "Well, it will certainly be easy for me to adjust my expectations, seeing as how I have none," Sherlock replied with a quirk of a smile. "But I understand your point. What would you like to do, then? Is there something you've always wanted to do with me? Is...this how the subject is broached to begin with?" He asked himself, inwardly growing increasingly frustrated with how little he understood of the situation. John appeared to be working through the situation purely by instinct - not something Sherlock usually fell back on as a plan. Knowing everything five steps ahead of time and manipulating things to work according to his plan was his norm; the thought of manipulating John in such a way, however, revolted him. Sherlock had his utmost trust - he wasn't about to throw that away for the sake of maintaining the status quo. It rather defeated the point of a relationship, anyway. John smiled warmly, sensing Sherlock's frustration at his own naiveté, and aware that he was unused to feeling as such. The hand on Sherlock's cheek shifted slightly, and John brushed a thumb reassuringly over the defined line of Sherlock's cheekbone. 

"I dunno, really. I didn't really...I haven't really given it much thought, to tell you the truth. I thought it best not to think about it. Torture myself with impossibilities, you know...But, yeah. I suppose, occasionally, I'd like to do something small. Go for walks with you. Have dinner - specially. Watch films and listen to your hilarious commentary - well, _I_ think it's hilarious - but, you know, actually be able to lay against you instead of just wanting to." Suddenly self-conscious, John dropped his hand and looked down at his naked lap, shrugging. "I dunno, not anything huge." 

 "Small is good, small is...workable," Sherlock agreed, nodding. He bit his lip in a moment of consideration. "While I was gone," he said slowly, "I used to imagine you with me in cities I visited. Make lists of places I'd take you that I found while I was travelling. Not huge tourist spots - little places, hidden away that only locals know about. Think about what you'd say about them. It helped with the monotony and isolation. That's true of London, too. Many places I could take you that I know about." A year on, and the two of them hadn't discussed in huge detail what Sherlock had done in his absence. John's own personal crisis overshadowed that in Sherlock's mind, so it hadn't come up often save for the odd question from John now and again for whatever reason. 

 "I'd really enjoy that," John admitted truthfully. "Really." He looked up from his lap, gazing at Sherlock with serious, imploring eyes. "I know you had to...get rid of a few people while you were away, but you've never really told me what you did. You already know what happened with me, in greater detail than you probably wanted to...I've sort of been wondering that, what happened while you were away. The things you did, the places you went - and, by the way, I'd love to. All of it. It sounds like...I don't know - a dream. The only sights of the rest of the world I've seen involve sand and guns. It would be fantastic." 

"There's no such thing as too much detail when it comes to learning about what happened to you in my absence," Sherlock replied easily. He shifted uncomfortably at mention of his activities. Being distracted by John's personal circumstances, as well as the overall process of adjusting to just being _home_ again had kept all of _that_ in his periphery. And if he was being honest with himself, he'd prefer it if it stayed that way, but John wouldn't be too pleased with verbal dodging. At some point it would have to all come out, but..."Yes, there were assassinations," he said, deciding to simply be blunt, "and much more I'm not proud of. If you want to know, I will, of course, tell you. But, please, not tonight. It will take much time to go through, more than one sitting, and I'd rather not ruin tonight further by making you reminisce about more unpleasant things. In fact, it's been a good three days since I last slept properly, and tonight's activities have made me suitably exhausted. Is...that okay?" he asked slowly. 

 John was quick to nod his head, almost too suddenly. He'd been foolish and rather selfish to think Sherlock would want to stay up telling John about all his endeavours, when the man hadn't been getting adequate sleep for days. "Of course it's okay," he replied reassuringly, and moved to pull back the covers to the bed. "Definitely. Please, get to sleep, while it's easy for you." He hesitated, then slipped into bed on the other side. "You don't mind if...?" 

 Sherlock raised an eyebrow as if to say 'really, John?' and answered the question by climbing back in himself and pulling John down into his chest. Even without the benefit of afterglow, holding John was proving to be a truly enticing thing to do. "And as far as travelling," he said once they were settled in, "whenever you want. For a few days - a week, if you like. Take mini-vacations from time to time. I can't do a sabbatical; I'll likely drive myself mad without working that long. But if you're truly interested, I can accommodate. Compromise, right?" he asked with a smile, kissing the back of John's head. 

 A happy warmth spread through John when Sherlock pulled him in, settling his head on Sherlock's chest to listen to the pump of blood from the left atrium down into the left ventricle, then out through the aorta in a cyclical pattern. He knew the mechanics and driving forces of the phenomenon, and heard it himself through a stethoscope at least twenty times a day, but...somehow, Sherlock's heartbeat was more. More rhythmic, more special, more sacred. And John found himself delighting in listening to it. He enjoyed, too, being able to physically feel the rumble of Sherlock's low baritone voice through his chest cavity, and John clung a little tighter to his side. He smiled. 

"Right. But you do know, I wouldn't want to keep you away for _too_ long. Just some trips here and there. I've always enjoyed the idea of a native-led trip, rather than a tourist vacation. Perhaps we could start with a few days, somewhere not far, then - who knows?" John couldn't help the note of curious excitement creeping into his voice. It was true, he was a bit of a travel bug. But what made it all more enticing was the fact that Sherlock would be right there to experience it with him. 

 "Easily arranged. Just pick a time and place." Sherlock carded a hand through John's longer-than-usual hair, noting he would probably want a haircut soon. He pondered the individual parts of his head, the layers of tissue comprising his scalp - all things every other one of the seven billion people on the planet had. But none of them were John's hair, or ears, or smile...right down to the core of his DNA. Absolutely no one like him, and yet made up of all the same things as everyone else. This exact, one person he could have never met, never known as he did now...what a tragedy that would have been. Sherlock had to remind himself how to breathe after that pseudo-philosophical analysis of the infinite permutations of the universe. He shook his head minutely - this was well beyond his month's quota of metaphysical pontification. 

 "I have another request," he said softly. John gave a mumble of acknowledgement. "Pop culture would have me believe morning sex is superior to the stereotypical nighttime, in-the-dark copulation. I'd like to put that theory to the test." He pulled away just enough to give John a mischievous smile. 

 The noise of surprise that left John's throat when Sherlock uttered what was, essentially, a proposition disguised as a scientific inquiry, John was sure he'd never sounded like that before. He lifted his head enough to turn it to face Sherlock, chin resting on the man's chest, and a small laugh bubbled in the back of his throat. It was so much like Sherlock to say it like that, John had to resist the urge to break into a wide, stupid grin. He settled for leaning up Sherlock's body to place a small but sincere on his lips, still silently marvelling at the fact that he, John, was now allowed to do this on a daily basis, at any time, if he so desired. 

 "A sound test." He pulled away and laid his head on the side of Sherlock's chest, placing his hand in front of him in the middle, right over the man's heart. "As I've done my own experiments, I could have told you the results already." He kissed Sherlock's nipple before laying his head back down and shutting his eyes, a small smirk adorning his lips. "But you'll get your results soon enough, and I'd venture to say they'll be quite satisfactory." 

Sherlock tried his damnedest to kill the grin that threatened to overwhelm - and failed miserably. Suddenly he didn't know if he could sleep anymore, living in anticipation as he was. "I look forward to it - be sure to wake me if you rise before me. Don't leave me sleeping in anticipation," he snickered. To settle himself, he began drawing circles on John's vulnerable back with a finger. That soon morphed to different shapes and, eventually, Chinese characters he remembered from the banking case with Sebastian. A victorious smirk cut his features - colleague, indeed. "Sleep well, John." John hummed softly in response to Sherlock's words, that noise all John could summon at the moment because tonight, everything he'd experienced in the last twenty-four, and especially the last twelve hours hit him like a truckload of bricks. With Sherlock so close, his heartbeat like a soothing lullaby, his fingers drawing shapes and lines into John's back, it wasn't hard for him to fall asleep as quickly as he did. He surrendered into unconsciousness with Sherlock's scent in his nose, Sherlock's touch against his body, and without a wisp of a nightmare. Sleep well, indeed. Sherlock himself stayed awake for nearly an hour, simmering in elation before exhaustion finally took him down. 


	4. Chapter 4

          For one very short, terrifying moment as he broke the surface of consciousness, Sherlock thought last night had been another, exceedingly vivid dream. He put a hand under him to sit up, only to jostle something next to him - one very real, sleeping John Watson curled up behind him. Instantly his rising anxiety was crushed and conquered by soaring exuberance. He rolled over carefully so as not to wake him and hovered a hand over his sleeping form, as if feeling for his aura. John's expression was utterly blissful, even the character lines marking his face seemingly lessened in sleep. So Sherlock sat for a bit, just watching the other man breathe in slow, soothing rhythm. Before long, however, restlessness took hold and he finally smoothed a hand across the curving line of John's silhouette under the blankets.

            If there was ever a time when dreamlessness was merciful, this night was that time. John didn't want dreams of holding, handling, having Sherlock - he wanted that in reality. So, his mind gratefully supplied him with no images which, however vivid, would still be a sorry replacement for the grit of reality, but instead allowed him the swirling darkness of oblivion. It was the sort of sleep that left one blinking awake seemingly moments later, only to realize it had actually been hours. And as John blinked awake, reaching up to rub his eyes, he felt a hand smooth over him, and looked up. When his clearing vision revealed Sherlock's softened face etched against the very real background of his flatmate's, and not his, room, John broke into a small but growing smile.

             "Hello," he murmured groggily, eyes running over Sherlock, fully appreciative of everything they took in. "Well, don't you look well-rested." The smile jilted into a smirk. "I suppose the only thing that would make you look more handsome at the current moment is the look of jolly well-fucked."

             He would likely never live the moment down for the rest of their lives, but Sherlock was damned if he could even come up with one word to make a suitable retort with. So he simply sat agape for several seconds, shocked and rather violently aroused at John's almost savage forwardness. "Yes," he finally managed to spit out, "that...sounds good." His heart all but slammed against and around his thoracic cavity. A hand found purchase on John's hip and pulled him up over Sherlock, who slid down onto his back and a bit down the bed to accommodate John.

             The expression on John's face seemed to just keep growing, as the smirk swelled to a full-on feral grin at Sherlock's manoeuvre. As Sherlock slid beneath him, he leaned down and smeared his grin against Sherlock's neck, sucking and nipping and paying close attention to the other man's reactions while dipping hips down against hips. John would allow Sherlock the fact that the man didn't know his flatmate in this way, but he was determined to fix that, and prove his nature: attentive, aggressive, but amorous. John fell in a blur of lips and vacuum against his skin, stealing Sherlock's breath almost instantly. This was not the harried, frenzied hand nor the slow, lilting hips of the man from yesterday; this was controlled, quick-witted and absolutely overwhelming. For a full minute Sherlock could do nothing but lie there, paralysed with lust at his friend's (no, Sherlock, _lover's_ ,he reminded himself) tactical accuracy in arousing him.

             "Fuck," he finally managed, hoping the uncharacteristic use of expletive would illustrate his situation sufficiently. His hands clawed for a suitable position, but were too wound up by John's actions to make sense of anything. Had he enough of his rationality left to pull together, Sherlock might have been humiliated at his clumsy show of near-virginity, but right now he couldn't be bothered to give two fucks about it.

             Strictly speaking, John did not want to show Sherlock any mercy. The statement in itself might have sounded harsh in another context, but in this, he believed, Sherlock would thank him later. The fact that Sherlock trusted him enough to lay him on his back and break him into bits was overwhelming in itself, but what really made this experience the most sacred he'd ever had was the fact that the trust went both ways; John, too, trusted Sherlock to let him know what was good and what was too much. He certainly didn't want to cause any discomfort to the other man - quite the opposite. He understood that someone so inexperienced was bound to be overwhelmed easily, and as long as that level was not too high, it would be highly pleasurable. And John was confident he knew how to overwhelm. As his mouth made its way down Sherlock's neck, he placed a love bite on the man's jutting collarbone before continuing lower and lingering on his chest. John traced nonsensical patterns over the plane of it, following the responses of the man beneath him by nibbling into particularly sensitive patches and swirling his tongue around hardened nipples. John's lapping at his nipples caused Sherlock's back to arch and him to moan roughly, as if being torn in half. Everything he'd ever heard about the concept of having sex upon waking, stereotypically, was slow, relaxed, sentimental; John apparently found that to be a waste of his time, and Sherlock couldn't be more pleasantly surprised.

             "What," he panted, "what do you want me to do?" Miracle of miracles, but he couldn't think straight to save his life at the moment, so he was more than happy to default to John's superior talent and knowledge in this area. Sherlock had thought the idea of giving up entirely to John novel - he hadn't anticipated how far beyond amusing and anecdotal the real experience ended up being. Instead of a mockingly heart-warming image of being carried to orgasm in John's strong arms, he now pictured them as if he were a child being spun by his hands, left breathless with excitement but knowing intrinsically the other wouldn't lose grip or voluntarily let go, lest he be hurt.

             That sound, that sound, that _sound_. It was hardly human; it was so base, so raw. That sound that came out of Sherlock's mouth was something John expected he would live to make heard again and again during these times of intimacy. It was exquisite, not that there was anything about Sherlock that wasn’t, but John heard that sound leave the other man's perfectly plump lips and it sent John's blood humming through his veins. Instead of answering the question, he latched his mouth onto Sherlock's nipple more fully, tonguing and sucking as he pleased, only pulling off when he became distracted by the thought of other, greater areas of Sherlock Holmes to explore - more fully, more properly, than the rushed intensity of the night before. He trailed wet, sloppy kisses down Sherlock's stomach, nuzzling into dark, curly, well-groomed pubic hair before sucking a kiss at the protruding bone of the man's hip. Sherlock's body became a collection of disjointed angles as he writhed underneath John, moans transforming into peaked cries at least an octave higher than normal. One hand shot down to join John's head, fisting best it could into his untrimmed hair, which was a blessing - were it its customary shortness Sherlock would have nothing to grip. His other hand danced about restlessly on the sheet next to him, screaming to touch himself but his unfathomable mind denying every twitch from becoming a full leap onto his own skin.

             "John," he whined - he, Sherlock Holmes, whimpering for another human being in the most base, crass way. It only made him harder to realize it, too. "John," he repeated, voice mysteriously cracking low and high in a thousand different directions on one simple syllable.

             John could have come from the sound alone of Sherlock's beautifully wrecked voice uttering his name. It was addicting, empowering, altogether overwhelming...and John should have known that Sherlock would affect him this way when _he_ was supposed to be the overwhelming one. Of course he would. He would have shaken his head with an amused smirk if he could be bothered to turn his attention away from the matters at hand, but alas, that wasn't going to happen. For Sherlock's urgent cries, however exquisite and pleading and absolutely, maddeningly arousing, also meant that the man needed relief. And after teasing his way down his body, John obliged, dragging the flat of his tongue slowly up the hardened shaft flattened against Sherlock's stomach, from base to tip. The one lick up his shaft ran like a rolling pin across Sherlock's entire body, smoothing out the angles of his frustration and leaving him utterly boneless – so much pliable, moaning dough for John's enjoyment. Sherlock seemed to have entered a new stratum of arousal - one where not simply his body, but seemingly every molecule of him vibrated with want, re-polarising to point towards John's unique magnetic field. But, at least, he had regained the power of speech. He tugged his lover up with an urgent hand.

             " _Watashi wa anata ni kore o shitai yo,_ " he said, before blinking in confusion. John gave him a bemused look, teeth just barely showing in his smile. Sherlock shook his head and tried again, mentally cycling through several languages before striking upon his native one. "I want to do this to you, someday," he breathed, pulling John in for a hungry kiss, grinding up at him wantonly. That was another fascinating effect of this bout of arousal - hunger, unlike any he ever experienced in body, right down to his very soul. Acquisition of the other man via osmosis felt to be the only way to sate him.

             It was all so much better than John had ever experienced before. The connectedness, the hunger, the goddamn Japanese - to have Sherlock Holmes stumble over his thoughts was to be on top of the world, yet he had no desire to gloat or even acknowledge. He opened his mouth easily for Sherlock's hungry kiss, letting out a small, needy noise of his own into the other's mouth at Sherlock's hypnotic and painfully arousing grinding. At length, John pulled away from their intense kiss and rested his forehead on top of Sherlock's a moment, catching his breath.

             "Yes, please," he finally breathed, and smeared a kiss to the other man's chiselled jaw, complementing the action with a roll of his hips. "Me first."

             With that, John slid back down Sherlock's body, now more eager than ever to taste him in his entirety. He swiped the tip of his tongue in Sherlock's slit, curiously licking his lips at the sample on his palate. Deciding he must have more to make an informed decision, John ducked his head down to take the head into his mouth, coaxing Sherlock to give more by sucking softly. Sherlock's transport rebelled violently against his control - it took all his considerable willpower to temper the bucking in his hips as John took him in his mouth, impossibly slick and warm and enticingly soft. His sudden mind-body issue was a marvel. Save for the most grievous of injury or peak of bodily need, Sherlock had exceptional control of himself. But all of that was dictated by Sherlock himself, _never_ anyone else. John, apparently, had nicked a key he never even knew existed from him somehow, unlocked and accessed Sherlock at his core and was now rewiring him to his specifications. Being remade to suit John's tastes, and yet, somehow, it was the greatest liberation of his life. Utterly out of control, free of choice and planning and manipulation, just allowed to exist and reap the benefit. His hand locked itself in John's hair again, his feet pawing restlessly at the sheets below for purchase. If this was what he could expect from John's mere mouth, he couldn't even begin to imagine what it would be like to be taken bodily.

             " _Te necesito dentro de mí ,_ " he moaned, dimly understanding John probably had no clue what he was talking about, but didn't much care anymore. " _Onegai shimasu. Suki. Te amo. Je t'aime._ " Proclamations and shameless implorations crowded his mind, jumbled into a nonsensical mix of foreign syllables he couldn't hope to elucidate even on his best day.

             John's eyes widened and he looked up, his suckling rhythm stilled. He'd always prided himself on being able to read his lovers, but this was _Sherlock_. With the detective, there was always some sort of mystery, some unreadable glance or stoic expression that one couldn't figure out – they'd only end up with their grey matter in frustrated knots. Or, at least, that's how John always knew him. Never in his wildest dreams did John Watson think he'd be able to read Sherlock Holmes, but here the man was: laid out. Vulnerable. Open. Begging for John to do _something_ , and allowing him to be able to read exactly what. And as soon as he understood, as soon as he saw that familiar flash in Sherlock's eyes, John blinked. Then slowly, slowly smiled. He pulled his mouth away with agonizing patience, drawing out the sensation of his tongue pressed against hardened, salty flesh. He shifted lower, smothering Sherlock's milky inner thighs with wet, wanting kisses, then glanced up. Well, he knew a few things. And he wanted Sherlock to be as comfortable as possible. "Lube?"

             With one word, Sherlock's entire perspective of the world changed. His friendship with John had long been defined by the wordless and inferred - creating their own form of communication through sarcastic eyebrows, passive-aggressive shrugs, secret words and phrases. All meticulously created and agreed upon in their own ways over time. A pre-defined system to help John translate Sherlock's behaviour for the greater world. But here, with him at his strangest, the furthest from normal for himself or the commonwealth and vulnerable, John understood. _Implicitly._ And so, now, Sherlock lived in a universe where his bizarre nature was not only appreciated and encouraged, but _anticipated and known_ , without fear or disdain, or as had been in Moriarty's case, treated as competition. The infinite stretch of his existence, previously only occupied by Jim (and subsequently lost upon his death) as his true equal, now contained John. He'd mounted the final hedgerow into the proverbial secret garden of Sherlock's inner self, dusted himself off and bounced on the balls of his feet as if he belonged and had in fact been there all along.

           John would never be as cerebrally intelligent as Sherlock, never be able to pull in a thousand variables and turn them over seemingly instantly into a single result. John's speciality lay not with facts and figures, but with touch and feeling and soul - a true genius in that realm, where Sherlock could only ever hope to be a bumbling parrot rather than a true scholar. He scrambled to a seated position and all but smothered John with his mouth and limbs, momentarily overcome by his realization. Once he had his fill, he shoved John back and flipped himself over to ravage the lower drawer of his bedside table for the all-but-untouched small container of lube he'd bought ages ago for the very rare times his bodily need (or unspoken sentiment for John) peaked and demanded satiation.

            There would likely never come a time when John's body knew Sherlock's touch. Not completely. Each time this mad, brilliant man returned to it, his body would respond as if it were the first time. A little thrilled, a little startled, very responsive yet completely receptive – and for that, he was extremely grateful. It wasn't more than a couple minutes at most when the man was literally all over him, just a few snatched moments, really, but to John they weren't enough. He barely had time to react, respond, when Sherlock was pulling away again. He might have latched his teeth onto the pale shoulder in protest had he not realized what Sherlock was doing and remembered that very soon they were to be even closer - arguably the closest form of human contact possible. He took the bottle of lubricant from Sherlock's shaking hand and squirted a generous amount out onto his fingers, sure to be slick by the time he carefully slid them against Sherlock's entrance in warning. After a moment, holding his breath, he slipped one, then two, inside. Of course, John was a doctor. So of course, he knew all the most sensitive points inside an anus, even if he didn't want to. And, of course, when Sherlock acclimatised, John would be able to find his prostate with deadly accuracy, as easily as if he were pointing out a continent on a map – but not just yet. John watched Sherlock for signs of discomfort, stroking inside him and gently stretching. First, he knew, had to prepare.

             John held Sherlock's eyes as he began pressing into him, and despite his best effort, Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut and brow scrunched with mild discomfort. He gave himself two seconds before forcing his eyes open again to reassure his lover, let him know it would pass. While he worked, Sherlock brought his hands up to palm John's face though they occasionally twitched and shook as bouts of electricity shot down his spine and hips. He traced John's thin lower lip with a thumb, wondering if his partner truly wanted it as much as Sherlock did. Because it would never do for him to simply take from John without returning something of equal if not greater value - Sherlock would never push the envelope of his good fortune too far, feel entitled to something he knew to his core he never would do enough to deserve, however uncharacteristic that was of him in virtually every other realm. There could be no doubt for him, or his insecurity and fear would steal the perfection of the moment, however real John's desire was, and knew he would only ever have to ask once. Thought and sentiment and language (so empty and inaccurate to assign mere sound to his feeling) still choked his mind, but through it all he managed to speak, in the correct tongue and order: "I want you, John, but will you have me?" Reluctantly, he let his doubt colour the end of his sentence just enough so John wouldn't mistake the question as rhetorical.

             As the words were uttered, words that, despite his best guess, John never thought would leave Sherlock's mouth, he was caught. Strung between two overpowering emotions generating such a deep visceral response that for a few, reeling moments he wasn't quite sure which would take over. Eventually, however, as his faculties settled and the startled blankness of his face dissolved into readable expression again, it was not the urge to giggle giddily with the immense relief Sherlock trusted John enough to show his insecurities that took over – instead it was a mixture of guilt and panic. Panic, at the mere thought that to this point John hadn't done enough to show Sherlock exactly how much he wanted - exactly how much he _had_ to have him. And furthermore, guilt at the idea that through his fumbling he had led Sherlock to believe anything to the contrary. Carefully, as he finished pressing into him, John withdrew his fingers and leant back up the perfect planes of Sherlock's body. Every movement was slow and deliberate, his purpose singular. When John's face was above Sherlock's, eyes above eyes, he gave a tiny nod.

            "I will," he replied quietly, and if one were listening very closely, one would be able to hear that John wasn't simply talking about sex anymore. "As long as you will have me, I will have you. I will have all of you."

             John's face had reformed into a passive mask for several impossibly long seconds, to the point Sherlock felt panic begin to rally at the base of his spine. It passed, however, and sympathetic, loving John returned, a tinge of regret behind his eyes for allowing Sherlock to doubt himself. He had needed that last moment of doubt, however, and he felt John should have one last chance to pull away. His promise was perfect, exactly what Sherlock needed to hear, because now that he had offered John his one, last opportunity out, they were collectively past the point of no return. The only option now was to consume John entirely and ensure that this moment was only the beginning of the rest of their lives together. Sherlock slipped pale, lean arms around John's neck hovering over him and crushed the last of his reluctance with renewed lust.

             "Then what the hell are you waiting for, John? Come take what's yours." He spread his knees wide and pulled the other man down for a soul-sucking kiss, grinding against him as a final enticement.

             Impossibly shocked and aroused, John let out a moan into the pressurized kiss, letting the sensation take over before he regained his bearings and ground back down against Sherlock with renewed determination. Sherlock's more than reassuring words swirling around in his head, John couldn't have been more ready than when he focused his attention downward, slowly sliding himself in. The action in itself was not uncomfortable, as everything was slick and loosened, but John knew there was a part of Sherlock's body that might rebel instinctively at the intrusion, so he stayed still for just a few moments, letting his partner acclimatise. John's entrance didn't hurt so much as it was overwhelming. Automatically his legs came up to accommodate, Sherlock giving a strangled, low moan the entire way. He couldn't understand for the life of him how he could feel so utterly filled from such a relatively small intrusion on John's part. As his partner sat, letting him adjust, Sherlock's breathing went shallow; he was on the verge of begging John to do something when he started moving, slow but decisive and confident. One breathy, pitched, and shattered whine was all he managed before the act of breathing became far too difficult to allow something as unimportant and secondary as making noise.

            Once he felt the short but agonising wait was over, John began to move. He felt his entire body thrumming with each tiny contact, picking apart every movement and drawing electric flashes of pleasure with each thrust, becoming increasingly potent and longer-lasting. It wasn't long before John was panting slightly, his hips snapping into Sherlock with passionate and merciless frequency. His head, having long since bowed under the intensity of the sensations, rested on Sherlock's pale, beautiful chest, and John did not think it a fluke that with each thrust his lips, and sometimes teeth, brushed against the other man's heart. Sherlock found himself utilizing the momentum to buck back, balancing on the curve of his spine. Unabashedly his fingernails scrabbled across the bent plane of John's back, digging hard enough to leave marks and threaten to draw blood on the upstrokes that hit his prostate. If Sherlock had wanted to analyse during the act, catalogue the best of it for repetition later, he couldn't care less now, irreverent of any thought besides John, or sensation that wasn't either throbbing inside him or melding with his skin. Attempts at anything coordinated or nuanced, such as a kiss or a spoken word were brutal, relentless acts, manifested in teeth kneading John's ears and neck; spat howls of _more_ or _John_ or just single, nonsensical syllables.

             At each scrape of nails along his back, John's shoulder blades flexed in response. If he were to stop and actually really listen to the shocking and wondrous sounds coming out of Sherlock, John could have come right then and there. Somehow, thankfully, he couldn't have focussed on that solely if he tried, because all that seemed to exist was the rhythm. Savage and relentless, driven by the single thought that _John must drive Sherlock over_. As soon as that one thought became ingrained in him as a goal, John became sharply aware of his actions. He angled his hips so that each thrust would hit Sherlock's prostate and drove himself in, leaning over the other man's body and licking a wet stripe up the side of his neck. The path ended in teeth sinking into skin just behind Sherlock's ear and John latched there, the spot perfectly allowing Sherlock to hear the low growls that poured out of John's mouth with each thrust. John's feral noises into Sherlock's skin made his eyes widen to the point of straining and his body twitch in its whole. He brought a hand down with the intent of wanking himself in assistance, but a sudden hand from John slapped his aside and took the responsibility for himself. Because that's how John saw it, Sherlock understood now; no one besides he would ever bring pleasure to Sherlock ever again. Not even Sherlock himself - he was utterly possessed and treasured.

             "John," he panted once, twice, then in rapid succession before his voice died completely and he threw his head back in a silent scream. The small of his back arched, insistent enough in orgasm to lift John minutely from where he continued thrusting into Sherlock. Blinding haze stole each and every one of his senses, save for the acknowledgement of the violent trembling of sinew in every inch of him, peaking in searing waves as John continued hitting his prostate through his climax. His high bottomed out rapidly under him, and as he sunk back down it was accompanied by a long, pitched howl to make up for being mute at the peak. John still worked, though Sherlock could feel how close he was. Mustering the last of his strength, he clawed at John's neck and bit at his earlobe to bring him close.

             "Come, John. Inside me. We both need it. _Mark me_." With that he bore himself down around John helpfully. He swiped a bit of the semen dotting his torso up with a finger and spread it across his lower lip before pulling John in for a final kiss.

             John screwed his eyes shut, depriving himself of sight in favour of touch, hearing, and taste. And it seemed Sherlock knew how to combine them exactly to create an irresistible cocktail - for as soon as the man clamped down around him, pulled him close and whispered those words, God those _words_ , John was ready to release. What really drove him over, however, was the kiss. John could taste _Sherlock_ in that kiss, salty and musky and intensely addicting, and when it first hit his tongue he squeezed his eyes shut tighter and howled. The sound was rough and muffled by the clashing of lips and teeth and tongue, but John could almost feel Sherlock swallowing that sound down his own throat as if it were a delicious morsel. He felt hot and wet inside Sherlock, quickly becoming intensely sensitive with each slowing thrust until he had to pull out for fear of pain from oversensitivity. Even as he did, the orgasm did not leave. Rather, it crashed over him, threatening to drown him in the euphoria it created, tossing him about in its powerful undertow. John could only collapse onto Sherlock and clutch onto him for dear life, nails digging into the skin of his chest, stomach trapping the other man's release between them. When at last the climax subsided enough to allow minimal thought, John loosened his scraping hold and laid there, listening to Sherlock's elevated heartbeat. He knew that it was physically impossible for two objects to occupy the same space at once - Sherlock would scoff at the notion. But, privately, he marvelled at the idea that when they really tried, they could get close.

             Sherlock almost wished he hadn't already achieved orgasm when John came, because if he hadn't, the feeling of him releasing inside absolutely would have sent him over. Dimly he thought perhaps his own climax would have been more intense...if that were possible. It was silly to complain, however - what John had given him was far beyond satisfactory. John pulled out all too soon - another shame, though Sherlock could understand why. He simply wanted to keep their closeness just the tiniest bit longer, in spite of all the logic and rationality that told him the sentiment was silly and unnecessary. His arms shook as they struggled to keep themselves wrapped around John, muscle exhaustion acute across his entire body. He closed his eyes and, for a few moments, merely stewed in their collective haze of afterglow.

             "That was," he said slowly, "...ah, good," he offered, voice rough and husky. He managed to look down at John as he looked up at him - when their gazes met, however, Sherlock started to chuckle, and before long it had evolved to full-on, rumbling laughter. Being so rare and so rich, it caused an immediate smile to glide over John's own face. The spark of it was like wildfire, because soon, after having entirely shagged their brains out, two men lay together and laughed so hard that one of them cried. John had to cough a few times and swipe at his eyes to clear the tears pooling at the edges, and he gave a happy sigh.

             "Yes," he finally agreed, rolling off Sherlock's body and nestling into the side of his form. "Very good." The murmur of assent was punctuated by another giggle, a sound that only the detective had ever heard escape the doctor. Lying against the other man, John was content to prop his head up using an elbow, an amused smile still lingering on his face. "I think I've just won a bet with myself," he commented in a lazy drawl, watching the rays of morning light dance along the pale, now-glowing face of the man beside him. "You are absolutely at your most beautiful when you come."

            Sherlock flushed a bit and gave a brief, self-conscious chuckle in reply. "What...what did I look like?" he asked before his slowly-restoring reticence could stow his curiosity. He narrowed his eyes briefly, recalling John's expression as he had climaxed - or at least what he could see of it, given the fact his head had been bowed down a bit at the time. He hadn't put a lot of effort into remembering it, given how focussed he was on just the feeling, but if John put so much stock in the idea Sherlock decided he should pay a bit more attention in the future. At the very least, John certainly was gorgeous now, an easy, warm smile gracing his features and his skin still a bit flushed from their activities. Before John could answer, Sherlock sat up and laid into that fantastic mouth once again, filling it to the brim with unspoken sentiment.

             "So sorry to interrupt, go ahead," he said once he backed off, leaving a hand cupping his partner's face. John, having inhaled to reply, was left blinking and even more flushed in the wake of such a gesture. He gave his own breathless chuckle and glanced down, tongue darting out to wet his lips out of habit.

             "You look...serene," he replied slowly, focusing on the gentle warmth radiating from Sherlock's hand into his cheek. "If that makes sense. I suppose I've never seen your face look so unlined. Usually you have these little fracture lines all over your face - which are lovely, of course, they make up who you are - but there's always something. Thought lines, smirk lines, frown lines. But just now...you were ...relaxed." John glanced back up at Sherlock, trying to discern in the other's face whether or not his monologue had made sense.

             Sherlock tilted his head in consideration of John's words. He supposed he must look strained a lot of the time, consumed as he was so often in thought or analysis. It wasn't as though he _felt_ particularly stressed most of the time, but he could see how John would think so, and how it probably caused him to worry more than he should.

             "You've always had a relaxing effect on me. It's only appropriate the effect is heightened when you put that much more...effort into it," he said, smirking. "Though I'm ashamed to admit I didn't make the same effort in analysing you. I'll have to fix that next time - something new to test." Honestly, though he had to stop down at the Yard and meet with Lestrade, he wanted nothing more than to lie here all day, with this perfect specimen of humankind. The thought clutched at some mysterious organ in him, making the whole of his chest ache for its sensation. John smiled and averted his gaze sideways for a moment before leaning forward to seal Sherlock's resolution with a kiss. His own hand slid up to cover Sherlock's on his face, holding it in place, and his smile grew into a slight grin.

             "Just the fact that you _didn't_ analyse speaks volumes. Though," he added regretfully as he sat up and laced his own tanned, leathery fingers in long, pale ones, "I do believe you needed to get to see Lestrade this morning. Do you need me to go in with you?" Without waiting for a reply, John sighed, rubbing his free hand over his face. "We've got to get cleaned up and on with it, as much as I'd like to dig my heels in and curl up with you the rest of the day." The smile that had dropped from his face at the acknowledgement of reality and the ever-relentless turning of the world spread back over his features, and John leaned over the slumped Sherlock to kiss him once more. Sherlock slithered an arm around John's shoulders and pinned him in place as they kissed.

              "Five minutes," Sherlock requested quietly. Once he got started for the day, there was no telling how distracted he'd become. He would need all his numerous faculties, and he didn't want to compromise them for the fact he was still pining for even the smallest extra bit of time between himself and John after such a spectacular morning. So he'd ask this one, last luxury before taking off into something closer to his normal schedule. The new normal, really; a reality that meant normal-plus-John. And John would appreciate it, too - he was trying to accommodate Sherlock's relentless pace, assure him that the work and everything else could remain as they were. Certainly appreciated, but John needn't try so hard. Compromise was the buzzword now, wasn't it? Sherlock was definitely capable of compromising this. "And of course I want you to come with me. Billy doesn't provide nearly as entertaining banter."

             John couldn't stifle the small, happy smile at hearing that Sherlock wanted John with him on a case - of course, it was nothing new. The man utilized his expertise in medicine and occasionally firearms. However, it didn't stop John from feeling needed and, even more, needed by _Sherlock_. He lay back down, pushing Sherlock's torso back down with him, and slipped back on top of him so that his smaller body rested on top of the other's longer one. Resting his chin atop Sherlock's chest, John tilted his eyes upward to meet the other man's gaze. He smiled, and his eyes crinkled.

             "Alright. Five minutes."

             Sherlock smirked and hummed lowly in victory. "Knew appealing to your sentimentality would work," he teased, petting through John's hair with the tips of his fingers. There was so much to see and learn from just one unchanging gaze between them. Deduction after deduction fired off in his head as he watched John, all assembling a portrait of a man utterly and completely relaxed and content – again, because of Sherlock.

             "You're happy," he said, words sliding from him before he could recognize the inanity of the statement. "Don't think I've ever seen you this happy," he added a few beats later, much more quietly. He was, too, more than he ever had been in arguably his entire life. It was thoroughly stupid how many disgustingly sentimental thoughts and plans formed in his mind - of lie-ins and nights out and mornings like this on vacations Sherlock would under normal circumstances never take...but again, that was the old normal. For a few moments, John opened and closed his mouth and no sound came out. He had been just about to smirk and make a teasing comment about Sherlock's deduction, when the next statement popped out of the detective's mouth, and John realized it was true. From the times he dated hopelessly to his affectionate but unfulfilling marriage...

             "I've never _been_ this happy," he admitted quietly, his eyes clouding over from the magnitude of the meaning of that statement. "You make me happy." It was true. Utterly and inanely simple, but true. John had never wanted this much of a human being in his life, and he wholeheartedly believed he would never again. Sherlock was different. He was a game changer, if one were to use those terms. Before Sherlock, John had wanted a mate, a house to call his own, kids. After Sherlock, John just wanted...well, _Sherlock_. And that would always be enough. The detective nudged John up his torso so they were face to face.

             "I honestly hope I will always be able to provide you with that kind of happiness," he said, tone serious and perhaps a little fearful. The stakes were so much higher for him, now - no longer was all this hypothetical or a pipe dream for him as it had been while he was away. John didn't know if Sherlock had meant to reveal the fearfulness that was evident his eyes, but he didn't say anything. He was almost shocked to see it there, yet the second he saw that fleeting look he felt warmth sprout into his chest so suddenly and so potently that he felt he would almost lose his balance. Sherlock was worried. He was actually _afraid_ that he wouldn't be able to make John happy. It was an absurd notion, because John knew that Sherlock's presence, Sherlock himself, was the reason for John's happiness - not anything the man said, or did, or any certain way he acted. It was Sherlock's essence John had come to need, and so long as he was there, John would be happy. A hand spread across the back of John's head and Sherlock pulled him down for one last languid kiss.

             "Shower?" he suggested with a smirk.

             John returned the expression and sat up, rolling his shoulders back. "Yes, please. I feel...sticky."

             "How do you think _I_ feel?" Sherlock asked with a rumbling chuckle as he sat up again.

             One hand caught John's and drifted slowly along his leg, tugging him gently up when Sherlock stood. "No point in wasting any more resources than strictly necessary, don't you agree?" Already Sherlock could tell he was going to have to reorganize his compartmentalisation skills to accommodate his need to touch John whenever possible - that wouldn't do well in public, even if John didn't mind. Not just that, either - he would likely become a distraction in general that would need to be schooled. But that would come in time quickly enough; Sherlock was a master of that sort of thing. John gave a soft half-chuckle, allowing himself to be pulled up when Sherlock stood.

             "Because you've always been so concerned about wasting resources." He rolled his eyes fondly but couldn't wipe the smile off his face, so he complemented his expression with a tiny squeeze to Sherlock's hip. As he did so, he couldn't help but linger on the way his hand moulded so perfectly over Sherlock's pelvic bone, and it took him a second to blink his thoughts away. "Right, then. Off we go."

             "It's just a shower, John, not a holiday in the country," Sherlock scoffed amicably, leading John with a hand at the small of his back. Once the water was running and at a suitable temperature, Sherlock slipped in, enticing John to join him with a theatrical hand outstretched, as if in invitation to dance.

             "Hope you aren't in some terrible rush," he said quietly when the other man stepped in and Sherlock pulled him in with both hands on his waist. "Still early. Lestrade probably won't be available until half past ten at least." Hair now completely soaked, Sherlock ran a hand through it to push it back before dropping his attention to John's neck.  Letting out a deep sound that was somewhere between a chuckle and a groan, John tilted his head to the side and back, allowing Sherlock room to roam as he pleased.

             "Maybe even eleven," he added, his own coy smirk painted across his face. John glanced sideways at the stream-soaked Sherlock, his face all angles now that his dark curls had been slicked back. He licked his lips at the thought of flicking his tongue along those angles, and made a mental note to pursue that later. For the moment, however, his arms seemed to slip around Sherlock's slender waist of their own accord, throat letting out a small noise at the sensation of Sherlock's lips brushing over a sensitive spot. Sherlock grinned into John's skin.

            "Eleven. Yes. God forbid we inconvenience the Yard by showing up too early." Noting John's reaction, Sherlock hovered over the same patch of neck a bit longer, digging in with nuanced teeth. The corner of his jaw met John's, stubble scraping against his own, still-relatively-smooth skin and making him hum at a baritone rumble. He wrapped possessive arms around the other man's shoulder and waist as he upped his game just the slightest. John had received more than his fill of making Sherlock squirm and moan - Sherlock wanted a moment of his own. John shivered at the sudden envelopment of Sherlock around him, leaning into the taller man's body. Soft, pleasant, closed-mouth whimpering sounds barely escaped his throat, sounds only someone who was as close to him as Sherlock would be able to hear. The feeling of teeth scraping gently against his skin sent his nerves into fits, and the things the other man was doing to his neck made John's knees wobble with want. He was no longer capable of maintaining any sort of verbal conversation, having become a blissful mess of limbs in Sherlock's arms.

             "What's that?" Sherlock asked in mock confusion. "Can't quite hear you." One swift movement later he had John against the back wall of the shower, pressing against him with every available inch of skin, utilizing the water soaking them to slide against him more easily. Making sure to keep it below collar level as they were soon to head downtown, Sherlock migrated down to John's scar and began picking at it with soft nips and tugs and suckling, ensuring the deadened nerve endings sent the appropriate amount of stimulus into John. "Tell me how I make you feel," he growled up towards John's head as he worked.

             John leaned his head back against the tiled wall and opened his mouth wide as if to say something, but all that came out was a choked whine. Sherlock's mouth seemed to know exactly how to move against his skin, and in what places. John supposed he shouldn't have been surprised, as Sherlock was an extremely fast learner, but this was hardly fair. Frantically he tried to unscramble his brain and form words, finally managing to mumble around a moan, "G-good. So - ah, fuckinggood..."

             "All the adjectives you've ever used to describe my work, and now you can only conjure _good_?" Sherlock teased, snickering into John's wrecked shoulder. "Clearly I've been a bit remiss in my effort." He grinned seditiously as he noted John at least half-hard against him. Unfortunately it was almost certainly too soon to bring him to orgasm again, but that didn't mean Sherlock couldn't have his fun. He sunk slowly to his knees, trailing a hand up above him with light fingernails in pursuit. Once down he nudged John's thighs apart a bit further before laying into the lithe muscle, opting to knead it heavily with lips and tiny, precise flicks of the tip of his tongue once the flesh was made sufficiently tender. Amidst the closeness and the sensations, John managed a breathless little chuckle.

             "You git," he choked out, but the affected smirk was wiped off his face as soon as Sherlock had sunk to his knees. In one slow action, the detective had silenced the doctor, and John's eyes widened, soon rolling back in his head at the heavenly ministrations to his thighs. He shivered each time Sherlock's tongue ran over his skin, which meant he was effectively shaking. His limbs locked, John's arms stuck out from his body, fingers scraping against the tile in vain attempt to grab something for purchase. He groaned again, heaving out a large breath with another.

             "You _git_ ," he repeated but this time, as he felt himself growing hotter and harder, it was less an insult than it was a plea.

             Sherlock reached his left hand back up again and tapped insistently at John's twitching wrist until he interlaced their fingers as Sherlock wanted. John's grip tightened around his hand, making Sherlock smirk victoriously into his partner’s skin. Alongside his head he felt John harden further. He turned and dropped a number of almost insubstantial kisses along John's shaft starting from the base, trying to feel out his approach. Apparently his estimation of John's preparedness was wrong; what a pleasant surprise.

             "John," he called in a baritone sing-song, waiting until the other man mustered enough of his concentration to look down and actually see Sherlock. As he ran a palm up the outside of John's leg, he ducked and took the just head of John's dick in his mouth, holding the eyes watching him the entire time. He sucked once moderately hard before pulling off and opting to return to flat-tongued licks up the shaft. John gnawed on his bottom lip and let out a choked growl, which might have been an effective warning not to tease if he hadn't been so out of breath. His breathing, of course, sped up almost of its own accord, and he tightened the hand laced in Sherlock's even more. He fought to hold the madman's gaze, his pupils probably the size of discs. There was something about Sherlock on his knees - yes, the actual sensations were dizzying, but perhaps more so was the fact that the man knelt at all, relinquishing power, with sole intent of giving pleasure - but then again, perhaps Sherlock was just as much in control as he. Sherlock kept up just the teasing for a bit longer, smirking up at a stubborn John continuing to stare at him.

             "Good," he purred, "Soldier's discipline, I suppose. Should we see how long that lasts?"

             He dropped back down onto John and took a healthy mouthful of him this time. As he pulled off achingly slowly, he varied the suction and closed his eyes for a private moment to revel in the feel and taste of his partner. Truth be told, Sherlock expected this to be a bit more challenging, but he supposed as long as John could keep control, there wouldn't be much bucking Sherlock would have to accommodate for. He hadn't yet decided if that was, in fact, what he wanted. He moaned lasciviously into John as he arrived back up on the head again and pulled off. John had opened his mouth to retort, his tenacity still present though wavering, and found that action to be a huge mistake. Because the second he _felt_ Sherlock's baritone voice vibrate through him, any attempt at words turned into a low moan of all vowels. His eyebrows shot up and he stared down at his partner with a look that might have been shock had the expression not been so coloured with arousal. He reached a hand up, finally pulling it away from clutching the tiles, and thrust it through Sherlock's hair, relishing the feeling of the man's lush dark curls slipping between his fingers.

             John's hand tugged insistently at Sherlock's follicles, but remained mindful not to pull _too_ hard. Between that and the iron grip laced in his other hand Sherlock basked in the level of control he had despite his seemingly submissive position. Sherlock himself had grown painfully taut as he'd worked John, but he passed it off in favour of his little power play in progress. He engulfed John again, far as he could comfortably and began a syncopated rhythm - dropping down quickly, pulling up slowly and with relentless suction behind it. His mental image of what they were doing from a wide angle made him moan low and heavy as he repeated the cycle, and before long his free hand was wanking himself just to get enough relief to keep proper concentration. Much as he desperately wanted to talk to John, that was obviously not convenient, so he focused on putting concerted effort into his work to make sure John did all the talking for both of them.

             If he ever had any issue with not being able to become aroused, John was relatively sure all he had to do was close his eyes and see Sherlock on his knees, moaning into his cock, marble face beautifully flushed and curls charmingly frayed. He was also certain he'd never be short of daydreams again because this man seemed to make everything he could ever want a reality. And for a man who didn't interest himself in sex, Sherlock knew how to make John squirm. As the man on his knees again dragged his lips over the sensitive head of John's erection, he couldn't help but buck just a bit, hand tightening in curls and mouth melding the words Jesus, fuck, and Sherlock together as if they all meant the same thing.

             Sherlock saw John's control slip likely before the man himself did, in a minute twitching of his thigh - it seemed deductions could prove useful within the realm of sex as well. He unhinged his jaw completely just in time as the man above him rocked forward, though he still seized a bit in a surprised choke. That decided that, then. Perhaps he wasn't quite so easily accomplished as to scale up to full-on face-fucking as of yet. A remote corner of his mind raised a metaphorical eyebrow at his rising disappointment at the thought. Something for another time, perhaps. Having noted John's slipping cohesion, Sherlock picked up the pace and strength of his cycling and continued humming into John almost non-stop to entice orgasm. As John grew close, Sherlock became fascinated with being able to feel the cock in his mouth expand minutely as it approached the inevitable.

             This time, John felt himself coming apart at the seams. This time, he had broken control. But this time, he needed not to do it again, as he could feel as well as see Sherlock's discomfort. Standing his ground with the tiles against his back for support, keeping a careful but firm grip on Sherlock's hand and in his hair, John could do nothing else to stop and distract himself from bucking but talk. And talk, he did. It started as a low mutter, slowly building up in pitch and volume, occasionally hitching. The words themselves were a stream of syllables that made no sense, strung together as they were, but occasionally, if one listened hard enough, one could make out phrases like _Jesusfuckinghell_ and _Iloveyou._ When the pressure burst, John allowed himself to let go of reserve, threw his head back, and came with a cry.

             For a first try, Sherlock imagined he'd done rather well taking John's climax, but he nonetheless choked on the tail end of it and pulled off. Despite coughing a few times into the hand previously locked in John's, he continued wanking himself with the other. Once somewhat recovered, he turned his head back up to John and stared him down. He locked a hand around one of John's thighs to get his attention. And, entirely too slowly, John turned to look; his jaw was still slackened as he attempted to recover, eyes glassy in a now-familiar expression of content. Sherlock was nearing the edge, but found himself stumbling a bit in the approach, his mere hand suddenly not enough to kick him over properly. His partner, sensing Sherlock's difficulty, sunk on watery knees down to crouch before him and regard him directly. Sherlock yanked him in for a biting kiss, surging his nervous system with an unexpected thrill and making him come in one sharp moment that left him dizzy enough to rock back onto his legs under him.

             John was still panting heavily into the kiss, but pressed back aggressively nonetheless. Then, realizing water from the shower, which had long since gone lukewarm, was about to wash away all evidence of their endeavours, John pitched forward, catching Sherlock in his arms and bowing his head. He lapped at the semen lining Sherlock's stomach which was quickly being washed away. When he'd gotten as much of it as he could, he licked his lips in satisfaction and leaned back up to catch Sherlock's bottom lip between his teeth. Sherlock didn't reciprocate so much as let John happen to him, having advanced far too soon since orgasm to have all his faculties completely back online. Neither of them seemed to mind, though.

             "You are... _bestial,_ ”Sherlock slurred in delight a couple minutes later, pulling John into a clawing embrace right there on the floor of the shower. Christ, how he wished he'd been more conscious to watch what John had just done, falling upon Sherlock ravenously for even the smallest bit of his essence. He'd have to rely on the simple thought of it for now...but that did quite a lot on its own. Shaking fingers raked John's hair as the other man only slightly reined in his feverish pace in kissing him.

             Truth be told, John wanted to curl up on the wet floor and clutch Sherlock to him possessively until they both fell asleep, exhausted. In a perfect world, he might have had his wish granted. But in this one, they had obligations and appointments, and not to mention their skin would prune were they to remain in the shower much longer. But as it were, at the moment, all previous engagements flew out of John's mind as he lay on top of Sherlock, content, as he'd always been, with a simple if not primal kiss.

             Sherlock grinned and thumped his head against the floor. "Insatiable, yet controlled. Thoughtful even while possessive, oh, John..." he rambled up at the ceiling. "You are an utter marvel." Rather than draining him completely, Sherlock found himself tilting on the edge of energized mania. He sat up, eyes gleaming and propped an obviously spent John against the wall. "You and I are _clearly_ going to be a potent distraction for each other, though oddly enough I can't say I regret it much." With deft hands he plucked up John's shampoo, dolloped some out onto his hand and lathered John's hair without any comment. "Rather than irritating, in fact, I find it a rather novel challenge, having to pick past my admitted _obsession_ with you to do my work properly. I have since all this started for me, though it will end in much less melancholy for me than in the past, hm?" he continued conversationally, blathering on aimlessly as part of his natural high.

             Shutting one eye as shampoo suds dripped over his eyelid, John chuckled and slumped gratefully back against the wall. There was a blissful quality to the ridiculously wide smile pasted on his face, and he watched Sherlock hazily out of one eye, content to listen to his voice. It was a soothing pitch, complete with natural peaks and valleys in that baritone rumble and, along with Sherlock's fingers methodically scrubbing his hair, John felt almost ready to drop off to sleep. He stayed awake, though, so he could return the favour, and squeezed some shampoo into his own hands to bring them up through Sherlock's slick, sopping curls. He let out a charming laugh. "I, John, am potent enough to distract Sherlock Holmes from his love affair with his work? I feel flattered - and perhaps the tiniest bit mischievous. It'll certainly be difficult for me at crime scenes, knowing I could just lean over and whisper things I'd like to do to you in your ear."

             "Did I imply you're not invited to? How very rude and duplicitous of me," Sherlock giggled, tugging John to bend at the waist and get him under the water better to rinse his hair. "But yes, you're certainly potent...in every sense of the word." A true, beaming smile lit his long face - the smile he very rarely shared with anyone besides John, who had a preternatural knack for fostering it from the detective. Though his current endorphin high was almost certainly enhancing it, Sherlock could all but physically feel the proverbial ground of rationality breaking under him for the free-fall of unreserved love and affection. It added a splatter of a blush to the cheekbones made more pronounced by his grin.

             At Sherlock's adorable smile, John couldn't help but grin. Infectious, it was. Not to mention utterly stunning in its radiance. Honestly, if John could keep only one photograph of Sherlock for the rest of his life, it would be that smile. It made his heart stutter every single time. "Breath-taking," he managed in a voice that was so full of awe it was barely above a whisper. Letting one soapy hand slide out from in Sherlock's hair, John reverently stroked the back of his hand along a wet, pale cheek. "You're...breath-taking."

             John's words cut through his manic haze and hit him square in the chest, stopping his own in the midst of a rambling hypothesis on the biological source of John's aforementioned potency. His jaw snapped closed and almost immediately dropped open again as if to speak, but was too stricken to do so. Along with that his eyes had gone wide and almost childlike as the tone more than the words themselves sunk in and revealed their emphasis. "I," he dropped clumsily and stopped there for a few moments. "Th...ank you?" he finished, clearly at a loss. Something somewhere told him he should reciprocate the compliment, but for the life of him he didn't know how.

             It was quite heart-breaking, really, to see Sherlock react the way he did to John's words. At first, John wanted to chuckle at the man's mystification, but he quickly realized that Sherlock was completely serious in his almost childlike bewilderment, and his heart gave a painful twist. Because of course Sherlock was unaccustomed to people complimenting him. Of course he'd probably never heard someone describe him as such before, so of course he would have no idea how to react. And, really, what was the most heart-breaking thing of all of this was that John was only telling the simple truth. Right then, he decided he needed to vocalise the simple truth to Sherlock much more frequently, because he was likely the only one who would. He rubbed the pad of his thumb into a character line near Sherlock's mouth. "No need. I'm simply making an observation."

             Despite John's assurance that there need be no further commentary on the subject, Sherlock sat back a moment in thought. Eventually he snorted in frustration and crossed his arms. "There are no appropriate words in English vernacular to describe you," he said with consternation. "Contradictory sounds negative when, in fact, I find that to be one of the finest parts of your personality. Handsome or any other derivative of it only summarizes your attractiveness, never a precise description. Witty and charming, while both true, create an image of false geniality one would expect of some vapid film star, so I find them distasteful in describing you." He bent where he sat and ran his fingers through his tangled wet locks to assist in rinsing his thick curls. "So I suppose you'll just have to take the fact I can't properly describe your superlative nature as a compliment." He tilted his face up just enough to smirk at John, damp hair obscuring much of his features.

             For as long as he lived, John knew, he would always be taken in by that smirk. From the second he felt it cause a foreign twinge inside him years ago to the here and now, watching it ever so subtly grace the features of the man's half-hidden face, John knew he was a condemned man. He stared for as long as he dared, an intricate maze of warm coils in his stomach heating in affection at the man's words, before finally swearing under his breath and shifting forward to steal that smirk right off Sherlock's face. When he pulled back and pushed the man's slick dark curls back from his face, rinsing them, John gave a little smirk of his own. "You are going to be the death of me," he said in a low, happy voice. The smirk grew and a smile unfurled as he gave Sherlock's wet mess of hair one last shake. "Come on, let's finish up. I'm fucking freezing."

             "Of course." Sherlock stood and pulled John up with a hand. They each made short work of scrubbing themselves down and all but flew back out of the shower, water having gone stone-cold. Sherlock wandered back in to his (their?) room and while towelling his hair picked up his phone. Three missed calls, all from Lestrade. Oh. _Well then._


	5. Chapter 5

He rang back, tossing the towel over his shoulder as he waited. "Lestrade, apologies. I was...collecting data," he said with a sly smirk, glancing over at John as he re-entered the bedroom. "What is it?" His eyes lit with excitement as Lestrade got him up to speed. "Absolutely. Thirty minutes." He hung up, grinning like a madman. "This may be the best day I've ever had," he said, fascination and exuberance flooding his tone.

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's quip about data, resisting the urge to smack his damp, bare bottom in retaliation. He settled instead for lifting an eyebrow and fucking Sherlock with his eyes, knowing the detective would be able to deduce exactly what he was thinking. Sherlock indeed didn't miss John's silent implication with his gaze - a shiver ran down his spine when their eyes met. Insatiable did indeed seem the most appropriate word.

 With that, John pulled off his own towel skirt in favour of rubbing his hair into a spiky but somewhat drier mess. He tossed the used towel onto Sherlock's bed, having quickly become comfortable with the particular piece of furniture. He hoped he'd be able to become even more comfortable with it in the near future, but said nothing in case Sherlock was particular about his own bed - though, he thought, he had ample reason to believe the contrary.

"Lestrade get a new case in?" John asked pleasantly, pulling on a clean set of clothes. "Something interesting this time, hm?"

"A head washed up along the Thames. I do enjoy my corpses disembodied, as you well know." Sherlock took off for his closet in a rush, filled with anticipatory fervour. Halfway through buttoning a dress shirt, he peeked his head out to look at John. "So I assume you're to move down here, then? Unless you're for whatever reason attached to the room upstairs. I rather prefer my bed - yours is too rigid for my liking." He returned to what he was doing, and soon enough was back to his normal, immaculately-suited self but for his still-drying hair. He returned to the bathroom to wrestle a comb through it.

"Hang on, how do you know what my bed-" John cut himself off, shaking his head as he buttoned his own long-sleeved shirt up. Sherlock's lips twitched at John's confused reply. Because of course Sherlock would know what his bed felt like. John shouldn't even be asking anymore, though it seemed to be a habit of his. Pulling on a jumper over his shirt, he adjusted the collar to be above the woolly hemline. "Right. Yeah. I'll get my stuff down and moved in, then. Don't have much to be moving, anyway, so it won't take up much space." Rolling his shoulders back, John plucked up both his and Sherlock's towels and followed the taller man into the bathroom, slinging the used towels over the shower to dry. He turned and stood next to Sherlock, adjusting his collar and smoothing down his hair in the mirror, frowning. "Need a shave..." he muttered, tracing fingers along the rough stubble on his jaw.

Satisfied with his admittedly pathetic attempt to tame his hair and leaving it to dry on its own, he stooped a bit to graze his jaw along John's. "Oh, I don't know, a little bit of stubble never hurt anyone," he said, pitching his voice lower than normal. John didn’t react consciously, but his pupils blew out a little for a moment. John's mouth dropped open, and his eyes suddenly blackened. He blinked in attempt to ward off the shifting of his irises, and watched Sherlock casually step out of the room. Oh, it was going to be like this all the time, wasn't it? If so, John resolved to make it so for both parties. All in good time.

"So hopefully we can leave this head at the crime scene, yes?"

"Can't make any promises. Some things require further examination and experimentation," he replied with amusement. "And as for your bed...well, I might have appropriated it once...or a few...times for reasons I'll leave you to deduce. Scent is the most powerful memory trigger, after all." With anyone else, such an admission might have been mortifying, but he knew John would find it arousing. His new lover clearly was still having a hard time wrapping his head around the fact Sherlock found him even slightly sexually attractive. He backed off and headed out for the kitchen. "Shall we? I'll buy you something to eat later, if you're not too terribly famished at the moment."

John finished adjusting himself into his perfectly neat, everyday presentation of doctor-with-a-hint-of-military, and headed out after Sherlock. John swiped the newspaper from the counter - no doubt Mrs. Hudson had dropped it off at some point when they were still sleeping in or possibly while they were taking their shower. He curiously flipped through it, standing with his hip leaning against the kitchen counter.

"Hardly hungry at all, on the contrary," he replied casually, not looking up from the paper but letting a little smirk settle over his features. "Have replaced food with sex, for the moment."

"Oh?" Sherlock asked as he plucked his coat up and slipped it on. "Perhaps if we keep it up long enough, you'll stop whining at me to eat all the time. What an unexpected bonus." Now ready to go, he crossed back over to John leant against the counter and stared at him over the top of the paper, just his eyes and nose visible to John. "Read on the way, I told him we'd be there soon." He tugged at the vulnerable cuff of John's sleeve insistently. In reply, he scoffed and folded up his paper, tucking it under his arm as he allowed Sherlock to pull him along, grabbing his own sleek coat in the process and yanking it on in a hurry.

"I do not _whine_ ," he deliberated, slipping into a cab beside Sherlock and shutting the door. "Scotland Yard," to the cab driver, he glanced back meaningfully to Sherlock before shaking out his paper again pointedly. He hardly cared what the cabbie did or didn't hear, so as he scanned over the articles on the second page, he said calmly, "And while orgasms are quite filling, they are side dishes and not main courses."

"Side dishes? Clearly I'm being remiss, somehow. Have to work on that," Sherlock replied lightly, busy with his phone. "Shame on you, howling as you were, making me think I've done a satisfactory job getting you off." He cast a quick glance into the rear-view mirror - their cabbie had gone a dark red, but his expression remained steadfast in being impassive. All-too-familiar with conversations such as these, but this was testing his fortitude. Most likely because of how nonchalant they were being. With one amused, raised eyebrow, Sherlock looked up from his phone and wormed his way past John's newspaper to catch the shell of his ear between his teeth. "How do you propose I improve my learning curve?"

Grinning and shaking his head, John gently shoved Sherlock away, though the action was obligatory and the both of them knew it. Sherlock would be able to see the small shiver that ran through John's body from this close, and John was hardly doing anything to hide it. Glancing at the tomato-red cabbie in the rear-view mirror, he made a show of paying attention only to his newspaper, knowing the lack of attention would make the other man restless. The smirk stayed decidedly glued on his face. "You're a smart man, you know your erogenous zones." The smirk widened almost infinitesimally. He knew he was being more blatant than usual, but the banter was too much to resist. "Though, a hint? If you truly want to make me 'howl,' the insides of my thighs are particularly sensitive."

"Long since noted when I was going down on you, John. The fact you were standing at the time made for a poor angle of attack, unfortunately. I'll remedy that later." Sherlock shot back easily, still leaning over to stare at the side of John's head. Playing hard to get, was he? "Logic holds that if such is the case for your thighs, you'd be amenable to a bit of tongue play at your testicles and the patch of skin just behind that - I had an excellent wank over the thought of it once on your bed. You all but transformed into a banshee over it in my imaginings."

 Sherlock was not to be outdone in this game, so he decided to skip to a good trump card before they arrived at the Yard. With glee, he noted John's tightening fingers on his newspaper and returned to looking at his phone, victorious smirk spread across his face. A strangled cough could be heard from the front seat.

John absolutely fought to keep a straight face, though his mouth dropped open just a tiny bit in aroused surprise at the other's words. His jaw tightened in defiance, and he resisted looking over at what was sure to be a smug-looking detective sitting next to him. He narrowed his gaze at an article about a museum restoration.

"I wouldn't be surprised if you'd taken one of my jumpers right out of a drawer and smothered yourself with it." His lips parted in a predatory smile. "Scent, after all, _is_ the most powerful memory trigger, I'm told." He clicked his tongue as if in reprimand, glancing over the sports scores. "Must've taken a great deal of control not to come in my bed, though. Although, you _do_ seem the type who might leave some of yourself for me." Finally turning his gaze from his paper, he fixed Sherlock with an overly saccharine smile as they pulled up to the Yard. "Naughty."

"Look at you, deducing. Adorable," Sherlock replied with pointed sarcasm, not turning his head to regard John but unable to resist giving him a sidelong glare. "The thought had occurred, but my sense of subtlety and secrecy won out on that one. Granted, I didn't know of your rather extreme affinity for the taste of my semen at the time. Perhaps I'll re-evaluate that idea. Though you've never noticed the particularly hideous Christmas sweater you owned has been missing...well, for some time." He reached into his pocket and pulled out twenty quid for the ride and a full fifty for the cabbie as a reward. He nudged at John to get out and followed suit. Before John could make for the front door, however, Sherlock caught his arm, turned him and smothered him in an open-mouthed snog right there on the street. "We're such a _playful_ couple," he mused conversationally once they parted, taking off at a quick pace for the door.

Though he was in a particularly roused mood from their not-so-polite conversation in the cab, John was unprepared for the full-on mini snog session he was rewarded with once they'd stepped out of the vehicle. It had him so caught unawares that when Sherlock pulled away and began walking, John reached out to catch him and pull him back, only at the last second missing him. He settled for wiping his wet, reddened mouth and hurrying alongside the other man.

"That we are," he agreed, voice still a tinge rough but slowly smoothing out in preparation for interacting with the general public - well, the general public that didn't include the tortured cabbie. "I'm glad you gave him extra for that...ah, talk we had."

"What can I say, John, your steadfast heart and conscience have rubbed off on me," Sherlock replied sarcastically as he held open the door for the other man. "I would have given him seventy-five if not for the cough. Pity for him." They headed for the elevator and Sherlock called for Lestrade's floor. A thought struck him as the doors closed. "We...haven't discussed how to approach Lestrade and company. Would you prefer to keep our status close to the vest for now? I leave that decision to you, given your vociferous defence of your heterosexuality to them in the past. It doesn't matter to me." That wasn't entirely true, but given how quickly all of this was happening, it was a topic they could revisit later once they were both settled better with their new circumstances. As the elevator jolted to life, John looked over at Sherlock. He didn't smile, but there was a softness in his eyes.

"I've since dispensed with bullshit. I don't...I just don't _care_ anymore, Sherlock, because for the first time in a long while, I'm happy. And I have a strong suspicion I'll be happy for the rest of my life." Lightly taking the other man's hand in his own, he gave a squeeze. "Besides. I'm fairly sure at least half the Yard's got a pool going, and Anderson was on the losing side."

"Anderson being on the losing side is a constant of the universe." He ran a gloved thumb against John's hand, too overwhelmed to comment on the substantive part of John's reply. In all truth the reality hadn't quite sunk in yet, and Sherlock almost certainly would have some kind of intense reaction bordering on a panic attack when that happened. Because even now, remotely, he felt this was something he wasn't allowed to have, and was binging on the sensation with abandon in the fear it would suddenly be stripped from him. John's eyes grounded his rising apprehension; he held them for a few seconds, but was jolted from his reverie by the shifting of the elevator coming to a stop. He relinquished John's hand and strode from the elevator perhaps a bit more quickly than necessary, shoving his hands in his pockets. Lestrade stood at Sally's desk, looking over something unimportant with her. "What do you have?" he opened unceremoniously.

John grinned at Sherlock's quip about Anderson, but it soon slipped from his face as the man jerked away from him and stepped out of the elevator. He followed dutifully, stepping up just as Sherlock was barking at Lestrade. The silver-haired man glanced up quickly from another report he'd been looking over with Donovan, surprised. The woman just rolled her eyes and edged away, apparently unwilling to engage today. Lestrade glanced to John, who minutely shook his head as if to say, 'Just don't.' The detective inspector nodded just a bit before turning to grab the correct case file from his desk. "Right. Severed head, recovered this morning at approximately six thirty. No hemorrhagic staining, though, so decapitation wasn't cause of death. Also...we haven't found any other, erm, parts. Thus far."

"I assume the head has made its way to Bart's?" He followed Lestrade into his enclosed office with all his usual aloofness. "Seeing as how the crime scene has long since been contaminated one way or another, I'll need all the forensic photographs." Lestrade slapped the file into his hand and scanned the preliminary reports. Head found, customarily, by a homeless person - he made a mental note to get in touch with his usual sources once they left. He didn't much relish having to recreate the scene via photographs, but it was better than nothing. "No other parts found with it, interesting. Good job spreading the pieces, though more should likely show up at some point or another if they were disposed of in the Thames. But it sounds as though you're already on the lookout." He caught sight of interesting cuts in the back of the neck in one of the few photos in the folder - seemingly patternless, probably written off as excess damage from the detritus of the river, but not to Sherlock's eyes. He needed to get to Bart's soon as possible.

Lestrade nodded shortly, making a note on a pad on his desk to send the forensic photos directly to Bart's. "Anderson's working with them right now, but..." At a scoff from the tall, thin man, Lestrade cut off for a moment before continuing. "But I'll have him make prints and send them to the morgue. That's where the head is, yes. Our boys have already made an examination, but see if you can't find out anything else about it." As Sherlock turned on his heel with the file, presumably heading out the door for Bart's, John followed after him.

"Are you thinking serial killer, or maybe someone sending a message?" the doctor mused, following Sherlock back towards the elevator. "Either way, scattering severed limbs about the greater London area definitely takes a lot of effort. No crime of passion there."

"Difficult to say with so little data, but I do think, at the very least, there is a message being communicated. Some superfluous cutting in the neck gives me pause - I need to see it in person, however." He went straight back into the elevator he'd abandoned not ten minutes ago. While waiting for it, he slipped out his phone and padded out a few texts to his more trusted sources in the homeless network. He'd paid for their phones and minutes, each of them long since having proved their loyalty and usefulness, though it often baffled him why people so clever remained destitute, or in some of their cases, _chose_ to be that way.

 

John glanced over at Sherlock’s phone curiously, knowing, however, not to stick his nose into it when the man was working diligently. “Interesting.” John himself mused over the possible meaning of the extra cuts, searching through the medical index in his mind in attempt to find possible reasons. “If we’re going to be in the lab all day, I’ll pick us up something for lunch later. We could go do Chinese again, but that Thai place that just opened a few blocks away looks pretty good.”

Sherlock paused in the midst of fiddling with his phone. “No need,” he said after a long moment, “I promised you lunch, didn’t I? We’ll do that before Bart’s, then. Thai is fine.” His tone was light, as if this was the norm, but knew John would immediately pick up on the extra effort Sherlock was putting in. Normally, Sherlock wouldn’t remember to get John properly fed until he was dead on his feet from exhaustion and the doctor, being the kind and stalwart individual he was, hardly ever spoke up on the matter. He strode through the lobby purposefully and hailed another cab immediately upon hitting the street. To himself, safely five steps behind Sherlock, John smiled warmly. He slid into the cab after the other man with ease, giving the destination of the restaurant to the cabbie, who promptly set off once the door was closed.

"Thank you," he said quietly, not raising his voice so the other could definitely hear him, nor deliberating on it as he whipped out his own phone to text Sarah that he wouldn't be in for work today. He didn't want to make a big deal out of it, and he knew Sherlock wouldn't want him to either, but amidst an extremely compelling case, Sherlock was trying, and it made John warm.

Sherlock ground his back teeth and nodded with a jerk. They sat for a few minutes, John seemingly okay with the silence, but Sherlock less so. "John," he opened hesitantly, and John's head snapped up at the first sound of the detective's voice to give him his full attention. "I feel it necessary to tell you that, now we're not lost to the depths of wild physical entanglement, I'm...anxious," he said, voice strained by his internal struggle between wanting to voice his sentiment and keep it secret. John would want to know if Sherlock was going to panic, that was how these things worked. He understood that, but he did still loathe admitting something like this to himself, much less anyone else.

"That isn't to say I'm having second thoughts, that is patently untrue, but as things solidify between us, I may...balk, a bit. I just want you to know now, so it isn't a surprise." He stared at his lap and turned his phone over in his hands. "I wouldn't want you to think things have changed. They won't - I just..." he shrugged and turned to stare out the window, away from John. He remained quiet through the entire hesitant speech, and when the other turned away from him at the abrupt end of it, John frowned.

"Balk," he repeated, testing out the word on his tongue, as well as going through all synonyms in his head Sherlock could have been implying. He slowly nodded, and cautiously slid over in the seat, not touching Sherlock but close enough to be if he wanted. "I know. Sherlock, I didn't enter into this expecting you to be perfect at it. _I'm_ hardly perfect at this, as you can see from my past history, and unless there are people you haven't told me about, I've been in a lot more relationships than you have." He wanted to reach out, to touch the man, but he refrained in case touching was to become a trigger to Sherlock's aggravated state. "I know you're just...you. Okay? I know you've got to figure things out for yourself in that brilliant head of yours. It's okay."

"Figure things out, yes," Sherlock agreed quietly, turning down to regard his legs again. "Though chalking it up to me being me sounds to be rather a poor excuse." Failure was not an end Sherlock usually expected from any of his endeavours, but when it became a likelihood outside of statistical negligence, it became a sizeable source of anxiety. He was a perfectionist and exceedingly prideful in every facet of his life, after all. All of that was magnified by the fact that John was the core of the issue; Sherlock had taken the final step out of his shell out of complete frustration and madness, and now that he'd calmed down he felt as though caught with his metaphorical (and, he supposed, literal this morning) pants down. If there was ever something Sherlock never wanted to completely cock up, it was this. John bit the inside of his cheek, watching Sherlock closely and carefully as the man slowly calmed.

"Well, you being you might be a very valid excuse. You are sort of an enigma, and all this is, I think, new for you, yes? I mean, it's not as though we took things slow - not that I'm complaining, of course." A slight furrow appeared in his brow as he surveyed Sherlock's anxious, guarded face. "I'm not going to just leave, you know. If something happens. I've withstood multiple kidnappings and gory experiments all over the flat. You think you can get rid of me with one cock-up?"

Sherlock's anxiety briefly broke with a touch of nervous laughter at John's levity. "I suppose you have a point." His expression grew distant again. "But you're right, it is...new. There's never...never been anyone else, John. Nothing beyond some flailing attempt on my part that wasn't almost immediately waved off." His spine seemed to bristle with invisible barbs of discomfort against his coat - here he was, nearly thirty-six and only John to claim as a viable relationship, sexual or otherwise. A whole twenty-four hours...not even, really. _Congratulations, Sherlock_ , he thought bitterly to himself.

John blinked, recognizing the bite in Sherlock's words, he thought, perhaps two days too late. "Sherlock..." he began, unsure of how to phrase this, so he opted for his flatmate's usual approach of full-on blatancy, "Should we have slowed down? Should we, I mean, take things more slowly from here on out? We can. We most certainly can." He knew Sherlock would hate it, but he couldn't help the slight concern seeping into his voice. He didn't want to be the one to force Sherlock into anything quickly, especially when the man was obviously extremely inexperienced.

"Truth be told, I don't exactly understand what that means." Sherlock replied, eyes narrowed in frustration with himself. "And even if I did, what's the point? You and I...took off by instinct. It seems counterintuitive to force inertia onto the situation." John was trying very hard not to come off as diminutive, which he very much appreciated, but his knee-jerk reaction still saw it there regardless of reason. John shifted in slight discomfort.

"I just...I don't want you to be uncomfortable. I know I've sort of let that go to shit already, but...I don't want you suffering through this."

"I'm not _suffering_ ," Sherlock replied with more bite than he really wanted to convey but couldn't help. "And you haven't ‘let anything go to shit’ John," he continued much more softly, "I'm...just trying to _figure things out_." Sarcasm laced his tone, but he nonetheless leant into John's shoulder appreciatively. John pursed his lips and tried very hard not to let the frown on his face deepen, so he closed his eyes.

"Yeah, okay." An enigma, indeed. Sherlock had just snapped at and been sincere to him at least twice each in that little burst of conversation, and John hardly knew what to make of it, so he decided to let his thick skin pass it over. When he opened his eyes, it had already washed over him and he'd returned to calm. "Knowing you, you'll figure things out sooner rather than later."

"Your faith in me is, as ever, astounding," Sherlock quipped as they pulled up to the new restaurant John had wanted to patronize. The other man got out first; Sherlock followed and paid the driver with an unintentionally dramatic twirl of coat. Once they were inside and sought a table, Sherlock paused John once more with a hand on his arm.

"You are beyond important to me, John. I don't ever want you to doubt that." Having said his exceedingly uncomfortable piece, he circled the table, removed his coat and sat down without another word, retreating to his mind palace for solace and case analysis.

Surprised, John stared after Sherlock, watching the man have a seat and situate himself at the table. He blinked a few times before sitting down himself, a soft, slight smile more visible in the crinkles around his eyes than on his lips, but present nevertheless. He decided to cease speaking of the topic to allow Sherlock time to regroup, turning his attention down to the menu on the table. Remaining quiet to give the other man time to think about the severed head they were about to go examine, John flipped idly through the menu as a server stepped up to the table. John gave his drink order of a small pot of unsweetened jasmine tea and ordered a glass of water for Sherlock in case he wanted it, knowing the man was too deeply immersed in his mind palace to be roused from it by such a petty thing as this. After the server had left, John turned his eyes back to his menu and perused it.

There really was very little to go on - random facts in text on a page provided nothing to deduce, so he eventually defaulted to sorting through recent memories for filing into rooms based on importance. Nearly everything of the last twelve hours was gathered up and queued as he remodelled John's room (perhaps, eventually, wing?) of his mental construct for their newly-struck relationship. Once prepared, he went through each in chronological order, taking increasing solace in what he reviewed. What he had said in the cab was quite correct - they had done what they had out of instinct. It wasn't a sense Sherlock often relied on, but then he didn't often indulge in pure sentiment, did he? A flicker of movement in the kitchen caught his eye.

"Don't order anything with chicken - the staff isn't maintaining proper food storage protocols due to being busy. High chance of food poisoning. It’s a one-time oversight; that cook is being fired as we speak." He dropped back down into thought. John's eyes flickered up to Sherlock over his menu, and he nodded, a bit put out.

"I suppose that rules out the cashew nut chicken, then. Shame."

He folded his menu down and signalled for the waiter to return. As the man came back over, setting John's teapot and cup down and Sherlock's water, John ordered the pad thai, no chicken. Pouring himself a steaming cup, he blew lightly on it before taking a sip. John knew it was pointless to attempt to get Sherlock to eat or drink anything - besides, if he really wanted to, he would just take from John's plate anyway.

Sherlock continued his filing, eventually falling upon their conversation about Mary. In particular, he reviewed several times their dialogue about his doubt and inadequacy from then as well. Even deep in thought, his body stiffened a bit and swallowed hard. He copied the memory and filed it over to his emergency stock; a last-ditch file in case of retrograde amnesia, being tortured, or, at the worst, proper final thoughts to occupy himself if close to death and alone. That proving to be an inexplicably exhausting task, he broke the surface of consciousness. Once John was done sipping at his tea, he seized the cup for himself as a kind of panacea.

John knew the protocol. Leave Sherlock alone, don't try and pry, don't ask questions about his mind palace because if he wanted to tell you anything about it, he would have. Still, though, from the conversation in the cab and Sherlock's all-around aggravation to the discomfort he displayed subconsciously while deep in his mind palace...John was unsettled. Of course, he knew he would likely never become settled, lest he catch a glimpse of the pearl inside this otherwise rarely open clam. Strangely, John was alright with that. He usually never was, but then with Sherlock, as was constantly proved to be the case, things were never usual. So he was alright with not knowing some things about the man. John trusted him enough to tell him the things that really mattered to the both of them. He smiled as he snapped out of his own thought fog, watching Sherlock sip at John's tea and make a face at its bitterness. "Think this case'll take more than just today?"

"Probably. Depends on if more pieces are found over the course of the day, and how vital the identity of the deceased is to the case at hand." He frowned at bitter flavour of the tea, internally cursing the fact he didn't remember John didn't take sugar in bloody anything. "I have been...processing the last day and a half," Sherlock said slowly, as he set the teacup back in front of John with a grimace, as if it offended him. "And have come to the conclusion that I may have to place an uncomfortable amount of trust in your understanding of my personality over an indefinite amount of time as I...adjust. Not taking advantage," he reassured holding up his hands and palms out, "But a certain reliance." He felt as if he should add to what he was saying, but he wasn't sure what it was. Appreciation? Surely John already knew that. A promise to improve? That was implicit in his words; saying so directly would be redundant. John wasn't stupid. Despite the serious topic at hand, John's smile widened for a fraction of a second as he took his own tea back, pouring more for himself and taking a sip as he listened to Sherlock speak. When the man was finished, John waited a moment before replying.

"Well, lucky for you, I've had more than my fair share of practice in understanding your personality," he finally said, voice just serious enough to assure Sherlock that he wasn't turning this into a joke. "But...if I may say so myself, you're already learning. Communication's a huge part of relationships, and even though I can tell it's been a bit hard for you, you're getting through." He smiled softly. "I know trust is hard - it's one of my worst problems - but, however long you need to put it into me, I'm not going to betray it."

Sherlock looked up and regarded John directly for the first time since they'd arrived at the restaurant. "Thank you. And you are very reliable in informing me when I've breached a certain level of discourtesy, so I expect to hear from you when I do so with you. 'Being an annoying dick' is your favourite phrase for it, yes?" he asked rhetorically, a small but definitely sincere smirk quirking his face. The acts themselves were painfully embarrassing, but once on the other side of them, Sherlock felt a growing relief at having made the attempt. It wasn't something he'd likely expand to using in dealing with others, though - John was very much the exception to that rule.

This time, the smile reached John's mouth, and his eyes crinkled as he grinned down into his teacup. He nodded after a moment, even though he knew the question wasn't meant to be answered, and when he glanced up the pad thai was on its way toward him. He licked his lips out of unconscious habit and sat back, allowing the steaming plate of noodles and various vegetables to be placed in front of him. After a courteous "Enjoy" from the waiter, John leaned forward and dug in, his life choice of having skipped breakfast in favour of sex now affecting his stomach. Wordlessly, as he ate he slid the extra fork across the table in case, at some point, Sherlock wanted some but wouldn't admit to it. Sherlock regarded the fork for a polite beat to seem sufficiently disinterested before grabbing it and beginning to pick at the food himself.

"It's entirely too uncharacteristic for me to be doing all the soul-searching over this, you know. I would have you even out the ratio, even if I'm not really listening to you," he said, leaning heavily on his usual crass sarcasm to get his point across and simultaneously help him feel a little better. The pad thai was surprisingly good, whether the quality was likely to last would require further examination of the restaurant to ascertain their financing, and he was too preoccupied to do that at the moment.

Glancing up at the man picking at his food, John smiled to himself and swallowed a mouthful of the seasoned noodles. Remaining mute for a few minutes, he took a few more filling bites of his food before leaning back and allowing Sherlock his pick of the plate for a little while. "Comforting," he finally replied with a smirk, though as he sipped at his tea, John felt a surprisingly potent warmth blooming in his stomach. Setting down his cup, he sat back in his chair and pursed his lips. "I suppose...there are a few things I could even out, too. You aren't alone in this, you know, it's new for me, too."

"Reason is proving to be a weak deterrent for my...internal complications. What in particular are you referring to?" he asked, hoping to deflect the conversation away from himself for at least a little while. At the same time, he worried that perhaps making John turn the proverbial mirror inwards might prove damaging to their fledging status...but again, that was infuriating sentiment overriding reason. It being allowed the first real foothold in his life in arguably a decade apparently gave insecurity a massive sense of purpose in ruining Sherlock's usual stoicism.

"Well..." John cleared his throat, frowning. "I haven't ever really been with a man. Well, I mean…" He grimaced at his own awkward stumbling, suddenly understanding Sherlock's discomfort a whole lot more. He wasn’t exactly _proud_ of his past in that regard. "Um, what I meant was, I haven't done _this_ before." He indicated the air between them. "So I might be a bit dense as to how things differ. You know, obviously, apart from the sex. As should be obvious." His cheeks coloured and he glanced up at the ceiling.

Sherlock took a bit of comfort in John's own difficulty articulating himself. "You need not explain you've never been in a homosexual relationship - your previous heterosexual status was obvious from the day I met you. I'm not sure I entirely appreciate how it would be different outside the physical realm, however," he said, leaning onto his elbows on the table, staring at John past his customarily folded hands. "For all I know you'll be treating me as a proper girlfriend the entire time and I won't notice until you attempt to purchase me a handbag for Christmas," he quipped, aiming for levity.

John’s gaze moved back to Sherlock and he laughed in surprise, shoulders shaking just a bit. He was grateful for this, grateful they could drag each other through awkward situations for both and knew exactly how. “Purple,” he supplied, just for the hell of it. “To go along with that shirt you always look so good in.” Taking another bite of pad thai, he washed it down with more tea. “To be honest, I don’t know that I _will_ notice a significant difference. Our relationship’s unorthodox as it is. It’ll probably be the same, us yelling at each other, you running off and doing stupid, dangerous things, me running after you. Just with a lot more sex.”

“I sincerely hope it will be that simple, but you forget that both of us are incapable of making things simple when it comes to interpersonal interaction. Just because I’m inept doesn’t mean I don’t recognize it,” he added, smirk sill touching his lips but tone mostly serious. “Along with your understanding and good graces, I imagine I might also rely heavily on sex to articulate myself. If you don’t mind, of course,” he finished, quiet amusement in his tone.

This time, John actually threw his head back and laughed loudly. He shook his head, sniffing and returning his gaze to the man in front of him. "I have an inkling I won't mind at all," he replied, a lascivious smirk flashing across his face for a quick second before he grew a bit more serious. "It'll be different, because we make each other different every day. But as long as I change with you, I think it'll be quite brilliant."

Sherlock's eyebrows went up in pleasant surprise at making John laugh so openly. "Brilliant, you say," he mumbled thoughtfully, "it's brilliant already if I'm attached to the situation." He glanced up at John as he picked off the plate again, his own brand of humour lighting his eyes. His mind was much more at ease, for now. This was something else to be remembered in particular. Being able to hold onto the idea that he not only could get John off physically, but actually make him _happy_ was secretly empowering.

John crinkled his nose in amusement at Sherlock's comment, waiving the check over to them. He knew Sherlock would get restless sooner rather than later, and he wanted the man to have something to focus on other than the novelty of their relationship - there was still a chance he'd get anxious again from too much thought. He paid quickly and quietly, raising his eyebrows pointedly at Sherlock when the man protested, pointing out that the detective had paid for their cabs the last few times. Shrugging on his coat, he politely pushed in his chair and led Sherlock out the door to head for Bart's.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if you've been wondering why this story has a warning for 'graphic depictions of violence', that would be next chapter.
> 
> Fair warning?

Given the fact they were so close, they opted to simply walk to Bart's. Upon their approach, however, Sherlock reconsidered the wisdom of the slow path – any time they had to return to Bart's a collective chill fell over them. Each head remained steadfastly tipped downward to avoid even a small chance of looking at the edge of the roof six floors above them. They hadn't been back to work very long, either. Given the circumstances of Sherlock's return and John's loss, the detective had opted to turn down all but the highest priority cases that Lestrade absolutely needed help with while John and Sherlock rebuilt their friendship. He would almost always work them alone, as well. They'd only been back to full-time, cooperative work for about five months; they hadn't been back to Bart's together before then, and they were still acclimating even now. It was improving, however slowly - the first time they'd gone together, John had needed to stand at the corner a block away for ten minutes, Sherlock patiently and guiltily waiting until John was ready.

John didn't know why, but he'd expected to handle things better than this. Being "back" wasn't at all how he'd imagined it. He was a soldier, for God's sake, and he was used to Sherlock being back in his life. So why couldn't he go near the place for the first few months? Why did he have to keep his eyes glued to the ground? Why must he always enter at the end of the building, the farthest possible door from the famous spot where the genius detective supposedly jumped to his death? The measures, however inconvenient, were just as necessary as they were irritating, and John knew why. It had been six months since John had had a nightmare about that day, and he solidly refused to take a step backward tonight. They filed in through the door without a word, neither of them really needing to say anything. John headed for the elevator by memory, letting his feet direct him as his gaze was still inspecting the tiled floor. Once safely in the elevator, Sherlock finally cast a glance over at John. The lines in his face seemed to be deeper than normal, making him look tired. His eyes, too, were darker, likely as part of some effort to prevent reminiscing as much as possible. Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek and looked down at the floor and away from John, but reached across to take the other man's hand.

"Sorry," he said just above a whisper. He'd done his best to keep count of the amount of times he'd apologized to John (in words and action) specifically for their last moments together before his departure, but had lost count somewhere around two hundred. John tilted bodily towards him, an almost imperceptible movement if not for their joined hands. Sherlock shifted his grip and tugged gently at John's arm to pull him over the rest of the way, so they were standing shoulder to shoulder.

One small lean, and suddenly John was standing next to Sherlock, weight leaning on him. For a long moment, before the metal doors opened onto the floor of the morgue, John turned his head and pressed it down into Sherlock’s shoulder. Inhaling deeply, he pressed a kiss to the dip in Sherlock’s shoulder before lifting his head as the door slid open. John squeezed Sherlock’s hand before letting go of it and stepping out onto the floor of the morgue. He grabbed the door to the lab and held it open for the detective, giving a small smile to the taller man.

“It’s okay.”

Sherlock only gave a curt nod of recognition as he passed through the threshold. Molly lay within, working with another, unmolested body. "Afternoon, Molly," Sherlock greeted, giving a bit of a bow at the waist. "I'm here about the head."

"Right, yes," she replied brightly, stripping off a pair of gloves and making for the refrigerators. One was opened, the slab within containing only a plastic tub with said head sitting upright within. Sherlock shrugged off his coat and deposited it along with his scarf on a counter next to the sink before putting on a pair of gloves. Molly gestured to Sherlock in cheerful invitation.

"Decapitation wasn't cause of death, though you probably already knew that," she explained in her customary nervous, rushed tone. "Quite dirty, though. Cleaned it up since it came in. Running the DNA, still. Should have it soonish. Very little blood evidence or the like from being in the river. Cuts suggest a serrated blade."

Sherlock snatched up the head without any hesitation and began turning it over in his hands, looking for the cuts he'd mentioned to John. The doctor, used to being summarily ignored by Molly when Sherlock was in the room, moved over to a stool at the table and sat. He pulled a stack of photographs toward him, no doubt the ones Anderson had sent over from the crime scene. He ran his fingers lightly over the matte finish, tracing the superfluous marks along the back of the head. There wasn't any haemorrhagic staining along them, either, so they weren't cause of death - but that didn't mean they weren't inflicted while the victim was still alive. John swivelled the photograph in the air to look at it from different angles, then picked up another and did the same thing. He squinted at the cuts, noticing a slight bruising around the edges. Dead men don't bruise - so at least some of them must've been inflicted while still alive.

Sherlock found the marks, easily recognizable now the skin wasn't caked in river mud and silt. The cuts were crude, but made the unmistakeable form of three centred, parallel lines, the middle being the longest, framed by two perpendicular ones forming a box within them. He narrowed his eyes at them, eyebrow peaked. "I suppose they think they're clever," he mumbled to himself.

"Sorry?" asked Molly, arching her neck to try and see what the taller man was talking about.

"Brand of some kind. Feels familiar, but can't quite place it. Either way, someone is putting a lot of effort into getting my attention."

"Your attention? Is it a serial killer?"

"Unlikely. Rather someone trying very hard to make it seem so. As I said, they think they're clever. Inflicting the cuts perimortem in attempt to make it seem like torture of a chosen victim, however the basic demographics of the man in question here makes him statistically unlikely as a target for your usual serial killer - male, for one, middle-aged and in what appears to be relatively good health. Before his death and subsequent decapitation, of course. John, additional medical opinion?" he asked, holding the head out in invitation. Looking up blankly at the head, John held the gaze of the dead man for a moment before blinking out of his thoughts and setting down the photographs.

"Uh, yeah."

He cleared his throat and slipped on a pair of gloves himself, carefully taking the head into his hands. He was all too happy to turn it over in his hands, clouded over eyes facing away from him, and traced gloved fingers over the cuts.

"Definitely inflicted before death...judging by the colour of the bruising, I'd say these were made anywhere from an hour before to right at time of death - hang on." John narrowed his eyes, weighing the head in his hands before flipping it back over to see the face. He glanced up at Molly. "Did you note the ashen pallor?"

"In the report, yes," she replied, a bit surprised. "Deemed most likely cause was postmortem overexposure to the river -" She cut off as she saw John shake his head, frowning.

"And you took the weight of his head? It's still quite heavy, about eighty percent of what it would've been when he was still alive. But not too heavy to account for water logging." Molly blinked, and her eyes lit up as John nodded. "It was in the water just long enough to have some of the contents washed out, but not long enough to become bloated. So overexposure couldn't have happened, because it wasn't in the water long enough."

"So...what?" She tilted her head, confused.

John frowned down at the severed head, which frowned back up at him. "I don't know. But the skin colour's warped." He looked back up at Sherlock, carefully handing the head back. "Impossible to tell why without more of the body."

Sherlock tilted his head, interested in this new avenue of data. Definitely something he wouldn't have been able to note himself - this was where John often shone in murder cases. For the average cause of death, Sherlock could deduce and was usually right, but for the exotic, he relied almost entirely on John. "Fascinating. I'll keep it in mind. Even if you can't determine without more of the body, is there a shortlist of possible reasons?" he asked when he felt his phone jiggle in his upper pocket. Stripping off his gloves, he fished it out - a text from Lestrade. His eyes took on a manic wideness and he smiled. "And on cue, the detective inspector delivers." He gestured to John with the phone in his hand. "Arm's been found. Lestrade's securing the scene for us. Finally, a secondary...or rather, tertiary, I suppose...site to investigate. I'm sure we'll return before too long, Molly. Afternoon." He washed his hands, frowning at the fact his hands were going to smell like latex the rest of the day. He seized his coat and beckoned John with a wheeling arm.

Immediately John perked up, not necessarily glad to have to see another mangled body part, but glad there now was more evidence to work with. He shrugged on his own coat and disposed of his gloves in the bin by the door on his way out, having perfected the technique of quick shucking of latex from years of medical school and practice in many different fields of application. He held the door open for Sherlock as the detective swished out, long dark coat whipping behind him. John fondly rolled his eyes at the dramatic but subconscious move and hurried after his partner into the elevator.

“There is a shortlist,” John huffed once they were inside the metal room, as the elevator lurched to life. “Could be blood loss from another region of the body, congenital melanin disease...most commonly in the city, though, it's a side effect from overuse of drugs. You said he didn't fit the common type of person who'd be a serial killer's victim, but certain kinds of drugs have pockets of demographics associated-” He cut off, finally realising what he was talking about. Of course Sherlock would know that. He cleared his throat.

“But that's just one explanation. Hopefully the arm will tell us more.”

Sherlock stiffened perceptibly at John's explanation. Well, this was uniquely uncomfortable. Due to the fact the two of them had not discussed in great detail Sherlock's efforts during his departure, John didn't yet know about Sherlock's rather violent relapse that had started just after the first year. The skin on the back of his neck crawled to think about telling John...how it happened...why it had happened, and where-

Sherlock's heart stopped and he went completely rigid. Someone wanted his attention, indeed.

"Did you bring your gun?" Sherlock asked sharply, not turning to look at John. He could feel John's confusion radiating from him. He didn't answer right away.

_"Did you bring your gun?"_

"I - yeah. Yeah." Just to reassure himself, John's hand flew to his left inside pocket, where he felt the familiar heavy weight resting against his side. "Sher-" he started to question, then stopped when he saw the effect his words had had on the other man. The elevator door opened to the ground floor, and neither man moved. Sherlock seemed to be frozen to his spot and John was latched to his, staring at him. Finally, when the door could wait no longer and began to close, John shot forward and held it open again for the detective to get out. As he hurried along beside the now-urgent movements of the tall man beside him, John wished nothing more than to shove his words back into his mouth. Without another word, Sherlock stalked for the door. He halted John with an arm at the threshold and took a long look at the streets and windows facing Bart's.

“Stay here.”

He went out to the pavement and summoned a taxi. Once that was done, he marched back in for John, pulled him urgently by the arm and all but threw him in the taxi.

“For the love of god, John, keep your head down. Baker Street. You'll get an extra fifty quid by going as fast as humanly possible,” he called to the driver.

“What? No!” John's head snapped to the side and he looked up at Sherlock indignantly next to him on the worn leather seat. “I want to come with you. I might be able to help more. You can't just quarantine me-”

“Absolutely not. We are going home, you are locking yourself in our room, drawing the curtains and going _nowhere_ until I return from the crime scene. I'd rather not even go, but I need further information.”

John searched Sherlock's face, sensing as well as seeing the dangerous edge to the detective's demeanour.

“What's going on, Sherlock? What did you figure out? At least _tell_ me so I know what we might be dealing with.”

With no answer forthcoming, John reluctantly but obediently hunched his shoulders down and sank lower in the seat. Sherlock sat back as well but didn't relax, hand twitching as he tried to plan best he could against his odds. How. _How_ did they find him? His identity had been flawless, the disguise equally so. They were never to know. It was to have been a quick, in-and-out- job, but no, Sherlock had gone and fucked it up, and karma was coming back for him with juggernaut force. Panic threatened to settle with nauseating potency, but he did his best to shove it aside. He needed a clear head. He knew the game, now, and could plan accordingly. He was certainly smarter than the lot of them – he'd proven _that_ several times over. He looked John over and ground his bank teeth. Everything between them being what it was, now, added a fascinating new varnish of terror on top of Sherlock's already healthy concern for John's safety.

“They won't kill me – at least, not right away - I have what they want. You, however, are a massive target.” He had what they wanted and then some, and if they knew who he was, they would look to be paid back with vicious amounts of interest. He all but shouted in frustration and whipped out his phone to dial Mycroft.

“If the Commonwealth were to know how damned _useless_ MI6 was, they might actually petition Daniel Craig and Judy Dench for the job,” he snarled into the phone when it was answered.

“They only landed two hours ago. There's no cause for-”

“There's plenty of _cause for concern,_ Mycroft. They already made contact.”

“When? How?”

“There's a severed head at Bart's all but scrawled with my name on. They've likely been watching for months. _I didn't throw away three years of my life for this!_ ”

“Might I remind you, _brother_ ,” Mycroft drawled icily, “that those events aren't in any way _my_ fault.”

John flinched and froze. Silence in the cab for a good few seconds, before he heard Mycroft's tinny voice on the other end of the phone. So it was about that, then. The topic that was not to be discussed until Sherlock was ready for discussing it, which may have been never if the man got his way. What had happened to him in those three years. John sat back and faced forward in his seat, jaw tightened as his pupils flitted absently across the headrest of the seat in front of him. The cabbie seemed to be short on cash, because in only about six more minutes they pulled up to 221B. John had not said any more, or even looked at Sherlock during the span of the ride, but Sherlock seemed to be preoccupied with barking into the phone at Mycroft anyway. As he stepped out and swiftly stepped up to the front door, unlocking it and keeping his head down, several thoughts flashed through John's mind. Who were 'they'? What the bloody hell _had_ happened to Sherlock during his absence? Why was John himself in danger? Barrelling up the steps to the flat, he tore his jacket off and flung it across the room. As he stared at the skull on the mantel, his angry and rattled mind assured him of one thing that was definitely involved. John just hoped, for the life of him, Sherlock hadn't taken too much while he'd been away. Sherlock's face had gone deadly calm, and his voice low and venomous.

“Are you going to assist me, or not?”

“I can have men there in a half an hour.”

“Phone Lestrade. Explain...delicately. No one else is to know.”

“ _Obviously._ ”

“Oh do fuck off, Mycroft.”

Sherlock hung up and clamped down on the urge to throw his phone at the wall. He settled for slamming it on the desk before taking the back of a chair in both hands and forcing himself to calm down.

“This was never supposed to happen. I was _careful_.”

_Not enough,_ Sherlock chided himself. John was standing between their chairs, staring at the mantelpiece...at Billy. After taking a deep breath, he relinquished the chair and moved to stand behind John.

“As I'm sure is obvious, you aren't safe. I...made a mistake.” He shut his eyes for a brief moment to steel himself for what would almost certainly be a vicious diatribe from his partner.

As soon as Sherlock's voice bounced off his back, John's shoulders tensed. He turned his head to the side, as if debating whether to turn around and face him, then grew quiet. When it became obvious the taller man was waiting for some sort of reproach, or at least a reaction from him, John merely hummed absently, grabbed his gun from his jacket, and strode to Sherlock's room. As he bolted the door with both the sliding lock and the knob lock, a deep voice sounded from the other side of the door.

“What are you doing?”

“What you told me,” John replied shortly, with more iciness than he intended. “Keeping safe.”

Sherlock's expression tightened with hurt, but he took the hit. “It's not what you think. Well...not entirely, at least. Let me in. I will explain.”

Silence.

“ _Please._ ”

He thumped his head against the door and waited for a reply, wishing with every part of him he could just go back to this morning and stay there forever. John would never want him back if he was already this angry. But he deserved to know, whatever that was worth. John, for his part, had fully intended to scoff at Sherlock's request, until the _please_ was uttered. He stared at the smooth wood of the door. Cursing under his breath, he moved to hastily unlock it and pull it open, expression smooth and unreadable but eyes flashing.

“You'd like to explain, now? Now, when it's all finally gone to shit?”

He took a grand step back, allowing the other man entrance with a sweeping arm.

“ _Explain away._ ”

“As I said, this wasn't supposed to happen. I never anticipated I would be discovered. I thought my mistake was...minor. Overall, at least.” He looked John over – he was the picture of repressed rage, clenching and unclenching his fists in his customary way, well as his brow ridge set in a firm line. “I was sent on an assignment to Colombia. Moriarty had a high-level operative working as a mole in a drug ring, keeping tabs on their activity in case they became too big an international competitor. I was to get in on the ring, just be a low-level enforcer, get to the target and...do away with them. Three weeks. That's all it was supposed to be.”

He tossed himself onto the bed, put his back to the headboard and drew his knees up. It was all but physically paining him to continue. John would almost certainly take this the wrong way, blame Sherlock for his terrible state of affairs, and let himself be whisked off to some kind of witness protection, deaf to whatever insistence Sherlock would give that he could fix this, still. Because he was relatively sure he could, even if it wasn't going to be pretty.

“Your...mistake.”

John was pacing the room now, the dancing of his tongue across his lips subconscious, as well as the straining of his wrist muscles with the clenching and unclenching of his fists.

“Supposed to be,” he echoed further, then stopped abruptly and turned to face Sherlock on the bed. The picture was classic in body language analysis – John, tensed and aggressive, almost circling Sherlock in his pacing like a predator and its prey...and Sherlock, curled up into himself on the island of safety on the bed, protective and vulnerable at the same time. He ran a hand over his face and sighed.

“How long was it, actually?”

“About two and a half months,” Sherlock answered quietly. “Just over a week after I arrived, Mycroft got in touch. I knew something was...off. He wouldn't tell me. But my brother can, in certain circumstances, be brought to utterances of anger if I press the right buttons, which I did. And he...he told me...about you getting married,” he continued, voice small and weak. “I...didn't take it well. I disappeared into the countryside for a few weeks, and...picked up some old habits.” He was staring resolutely at his knees, though John hovered in his peripheral vision, stocky and pale against the darkened interior. “I am in no way blaming you. There is no one to blame for my stupidity other than myself.”

He felt himself being to shake with stress, anticipating complete abandonment for his story, even if it was only half of it at the moment. This was more than enough to drive John off for good.

“Oh...my god.”

With a few, simple sentences, John's resolute frame had crumpled. He dropped his face into his hands. “Oh, God...Jesus...” came muffled interjections that held no real meaning, and John scrubbed viciously at his face before looking back up. He took a hesitant step forward, then another, until six unsure steps later he was at the bedside. Sitting down and staring straight ahead of him at the wall, John shook his head slightly.

“Your mistake...” he turned his head slowly, large eyes fixed on Sherlock's trembling form, “was me?”

“What? No, _no_ ,” Sherlock said in a rush, climbing over on all fours to be next to John. He stared him straight in the eyes. “You are _not_ a mistake. You never have been and never will be. I just told you I don't blame you – how can I? You had no idea. _Do not_ put this on yourself,” he said, voice sharp. He retreated to the headboard once again.

“The cocaine made me reckless. When I resurfaced in Bogotá, I dealt with the operative, as well as...others in the drug ring. Men I knew were running a side sex trafficking business. Nearly blew my cover doing it. And when I left, I took half a million in American dollars and a kilo of cocaine with me. Mycroft was furious, but as the next year went on it appeared my identity remained intact, no way for it to get back to me.” He buried his head in his knees and awaited judgement.

Gingerly, John pulled himself completely on the bed, moving onto all fours to crawl in front of Sherlock. He remained quiet for a while, ducking his head to catch Sherlock's eye until the man finally peeked up from his knees to look. John opened his mouth, but found he really hadn't thought up anything to say, so he shut it again, remaining on his hands and knees and watching Sherlock. His face held no trace of a smile, frown lines deep and shadowy across his face, but his gaze was warm and peculiar. Finally, something bubbled up in his throat.

“Not angry,” was the simple, five-year-old response to an admission that the man he loved more dearly than his own life had fallen back into the very vice he'd been fighting to stay away from. John decided that elaboration was needed, and tilted his head. His eyes almost resembled that of a five-year-old: warm and intent and, yes, trusting.

“Frustrated, yes. Worried – beyond belief. But not angry.”

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat and he shook his head.

“But you _should_ be,” he countered, voice cracking a bit. “For...for putting you in danger _alone,_ but...if this hadn't happened, if I hadn't let myself go...I kept up the habit most of the time I was gone. I...needed it, to cope. But when I prepared to come home, I had Mycroft set me up in detox. That took weeks. John, I could have been home six months earlier. I could have _been there_ when Mary-” His voice began to break completely, and he hung his head again. “I've been clean since I came home, I swear,” he finally said, voice flat and muffled from his hunched figure.

“ _Stop it._ ”

Her name was like a slap across John's face, and he lunged forward to take Sherlock's thin face between his two shaking hands. He squeezed his eyes shut and pushed his forehead against the other's, holding the connection there for a long moment for stability. He opened his eyes, and when they looked into Sherlock's, they were piercing and imploring.

“If you want to talk like that, you weren't the one who killed her. That was _me_. I should have never married her, because I knew she'd be spending the rest of her life trying to get me to love her like I love you. I shouldn't have because I knew she'd do anything, _anything._ Even drain herself trying to give me the one thing I had left to want.” His own voice cracked horribly. “And – and so at the end of it all, it doesn't even matter what you did, who you killed, what you stole, what you took, because I. Trust. You.”

Sherlock jolted violently when John took his face in his hands. His words seemed remote, as if spoken by someone standing in the living room. Achingly slowly, he unfolded himself, staring at John all the while. This was the part he found entirely overwhelming - John's use of the absolute and the superlative in reference to Sherlock. Never an ounce of doubt or regret. Irritation, frustration, and disappointment, sure, but nothing permanent or fatal to their relationship. Always he took a load too heavy for himself for the sake of others, regardless of any real guilt or blame placed upon him. Mary had known well what she was doing when she married John - that was far beyond his control. Perhaps Sherlock could understand better her perspective, the warmth and kindness and strength John embodied, irresistible once given by him. She would have taken what she could, and Sherlock could certainly appreciate that sentiment. Ever-humble John would never understand for himself, but that was just another thing that made him so perfectly magnanimous.

"If I'm to stop blaming myself for my relapse, I demand you do the same with your sentiment for Mary. You belittle her efforts saying things like that," he replied, voice carrying a slight point on it to drive it home. "You don't understand what you do to the people who love you." He pulled John in for a long, desperate kiss, pushing all his anxiety into it to alleviate the stress.

Like clockwork, John shut his eyes and tilted his head, giving those inches up to Sherlock without a fight when he pushed forward. His hands remained faithfully cupped around that perfect face, coaxing it ever closer. A few times during that endless kiss, teeth clashed together, and each time they did so they sent small shocks down John's spine, as if to remind him that this being was here, he was human, and he was just as desperate as John was. Eventually, his hands were unsatisfied with simply clutching the man's face, so they slid back into his hair for a silkier and more tangible grip. Finally pulling back, John panted for air, out of breath and flushed like an inexperienced teenager. He looked Sherlock in the eye.

"Deal."

Rather than appearing relieved, Sherlock's expression melted into an image of repentance. He tipped John onto his back on the mattress and laid into his neck.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled between smearing bouts against his skin. His hands fisted in the still-messy blankets. So long ago, now, since the two of them had their perfect morning. He knew he'd do anything to ensure they could have it again, however many or few times they would. "So much I haven't told you. I will. No more hiding." He dropped and shoved John's shirt up from where it was tucked into his trousers to have access to a greater expanse of skin.

"No more hiding," John agreed, breathing heavily both from Sherlock's ministrations and from emotions running high. He took to huffing out shuddering little breaths of air as the man's lips skated over his stomach, making it cave in out of tickling sensitivity. When his kisses grew wetter and more forceful, John lifted his head up to watch him. Hair mussed from John's grasp, cheeks slightly flushed with guilt as well as heat, and that beautifully shaped mouth gracing his skin as though it were sacred...John's eyebrows knitted together and he had the strange urge to cry for the existence of this human being. Gratefully, he refrained, and chose to hum lowly instead.

Sherlock soon grew bored with John's mere abdomen and drifted back up to his face, taking to straddling him as he did. "I'm shit at being consistent, but I _do_ love you," he murmured before slipping his tongue past John's teeth. Emotions too peaked from their conversation and the situation in general, Sherlock couldn't keep from grinding against the other man in further alleviation of anxiety. After a few moments of that, Sherlock sat up on John's hips and ripped his suit coat off as though it scalded him, immediately dropping back down onto John.

Whatever John was going to say next was muffled by Sherlock's tongue and a moan elicited from the man's shameless grinding. It was all at once too much and not enough, the friction overwhelming but unsatisfying, even as John bucked back up into him. His hands decided to fix that of their own accord, clawing at Sherlock's back until they'd uprooted his shirt out of his trousers and unceremoniously buried themselves down into the warmth and softness inside his pants. John simultaneously rutted upward and pushed forcefully downward, straining his neck to press up as deep as he could into the kiss. John's enthusiastic response drove Sherlock's reptilian brain to the surface, drawing his hands down and scrabbling at the other man's zip on his jeans. Only putting in just enough effort to get both their clothes down for effect, Sherlock pushed back into him just as heavily just in pants. He had to pull away from their kiss completely to accommodate his slack-jawed, shaking groan to escape properly.

"I won't let them have you," he growled, a truly dangerous edge in his tone. "Whoever isn't fortunate enough to be caught by Mycroft's men will be met with _me_." The hands around his arse tightened; Sherlock's arms had taken to caging John's head, fingers pawing at his scalp.

John's mouth hung open and his eyes were almost alien, they were so blackened as he writhed beneath Sherlock, nails digging into the soft flesh of his arse now. The man's words and his absolutely sharp voice made John mewl, and he began to thrust up into Sherlock more quickly, mouth attacking the man's pale, stretched neck now. He wanted to imprint his own name across Sherlock's skin, and Sherlock to do the same across his. For now, he would make absolutely sure the loving but desperate teeth and tongue over the milky expanse was enough. Sherlock basked in John's aggressive mouth for a few minutes, opting to not so much thrust against John than pin them together at the hips and roll, never breaking contact. Soon, however, he became unsatisfied with John's state of dress, sat up again and, taking the lapels of John's shirt in each hand, pulled down and apart with unapologetic fervour until it split, buttons making tiny popping noises as they were torn asunder.

"Buy you a new one," he reassured, briefly kneading at each nipple before sliding back onto his calves and scooting back beyond, taking the edge of John's pants with him.

John's gasp was one of pure arousal as he arched his back off the bed to help shuck it off his shoulders, and he began to chuckle breathlessly at the man's reassurance before it devolved into another gasp, this one of surprise at the tiny shocks of pleasure from his nipples. Having been effectively stripped naked in a matter of a few seconds, John felt it somewhat unfair that Sherlock was still almost entirely clothed. As the man moved to be back over him, his first act of getting even was to drag his nails up over the delicious curve of Sherlock's arse, his hands then slipping nimbly around Sherlock's waistband of his pants and yanking. The useless material pushed down to his knees, one hand slipped up to cup him as the other tugged the still-buttoned shirt over the man's head, discarding it. Sherlock wriggled himself out from the shirt and immediately replaced his hands on John's skin, as if he needed to fuse with the man in order to live. He gasped openly and his eyes rolled back in his head as John's hand brushed him. After giving himself a few luxurious moments to enjoy John's fingers, he pushed off and slid back.

"Spread," he demanded, and John did, staring at him with wide, darkened eyes. Taking the cue from their discussion in the taxi earlier, Sherlock dug into the inside of John's thighs, pressing forceful but careful teeth into the thick flesh, teasing it to a bright red before swapping to an open mouth and sucking tongue against it. His left hand slipped under and around John's leg bent at the knee and scratched at the other man's hip, searching for its partner.

John wasn't quite sure what he was expecting at the other's command, but the sensations that met him when he obeyed were far more than rewarding. Body immediately forming a bow shape off the bed, he let out a trembling, choked whimper and had to shut his eyes tightly for a moment just to keep himself from bursting right then and there. At the feeling of fingers clawing for their mate, he slipped a hand down when he had enough presence of mind to do so, his own fingers lacing themselves through the other man's and squeezing tightly. As the intensity of the sensation built all along the insides and between his legs, Sherlock's teeth brushed a particular spot and John arched his back slightly more, letting out his first real wail of the man's name. Sherlock continued for several minutes, increasingly requiring adjustment as his partner squirmed and bucked at his actions. With John's thighs thoroughly radiating, Sherlock finally split into a wide, feral grin.

"Time to test my masturbatory hypothesis," he purred and, taking just long enough to adjust his hand with John's to compensate, ducked down towards the other man's balls and gave them an introductory, slathering lick. Quickly he retreated in case of violent reaction, good or bad. He kissed his way back up John's thigh to the knee.

John was certainly glad Sherlock had pulled away, because he couldn't really have controlled his body if he tried. His body gave a spasm, the leg not being attended to by Sherlock jerking out of reflex. Sweat was beginning to glisten on John's chest and he forced his eyes open, staring down at Sherlock with a gaze so large his eyes looked like they belonged to a doe and not a human being - they had that dazed, caught look to them, too.

"Again," he panted, and when the other man stopped kissing his leg a moment to look at him, John squirmed. "Please, Sherlock, I need it, _please again_ ," he howled, his voice high and needy.

"Happy to oblige," Sherlock replied, sinking back down again. "But be careful with your flailing, unless putting one of my eyes out is your plan."

John's hand around his was straining to the point it seemed his metacarpals might break from the pressure. Taking a moment to huff a warm breath of air teasingly over the spot he intended to assault once again, Sherlock’s tongue poked out and this time drew a firm line across. Ideally, he would gingerly suck on them, but given the violence of John's reaction that appeared inadvisable. Fine with him. John's hips struggled to remain somewhat in place, pitched whining meeting Sherlock's ears from somewhere above him. Emboldened, he continued drawing with the tip of his tongue, eventually surging in with a flat surface to lap at him more fully.

If someone had told John the first day he moved in with Sherlock that he'd eventually end up on his back, legs spread, allowing the man to lay waste to his senses while managing to never even touch his shaft, John would have flushed violently and vehemently written it off - he might've had a vivid wet dream about it that night, no matter what he'd been professing about his sexuality, but he wouldn't have taken the thought seriously. Now, however, John was ready to believe anything. Hell, he was ready to believe the moon was made out of cheese if it meant Sherlock could do this to him all the time - and allow him to return the favour, of course. Because though many would say Sherlock's tongue was made entirely of cold, hard silver, as the pressure built up at the base of John's spine until it finally burst, he had all the proof in the world that, indeed, it most certainly was not.

Sherlock felt John's hips jerk in orgasm and sat up just in time to watch him bow up from the mattress, all but screaming. He dropped himself over his lover's torso as the climax ebbed back, nipping up the spattered mess across it. Arousal pounded at the back of his skull hard as the taste made its neural trip to the brain and registered. He reached up and hauled himself up to John's face, reddened and still clouded from orgasm. "Suck me, _hard_ ," he demanded before sitting up again and resting back on his hands, waiting in agonising tension for John to pull himself together. He curled his toes and scrunched his eyes shut in futile attempt to relieve even a fraction of his discomfort.

Sherlock’s words pierced the haze of John’s orgasm, caught it with razor teeth and tore it aside. His gaze slammed into focus and he no longer looked innocent and doe-eyed, but dark and dangerous. Smoothing his tongue across his top lip, the tip of it caught in the corner, and when he smiled it was all teeth and very predatory.

“Oh, you just _know_ , don’t you?” He was, of course, referring to another part of their cab conversation, once involving his taste preferences and one he desperately hoped Sherlock would never forget. Inhaling Sherlock’s musk deeply, John laved the flat of his tongue up in one generous, slow motion along the entire length of his shaft, reaching a hand up to massage his balls just as John’s mouth encased the reddened head and sucked possessively.

The growling beast of arousal pounding at the inside of his head escalated to full-on clawing, making Sherlock throw his head back and cry out in one long rising and falling howl. His nails threatened to tear into the high-quality sheets beneath him. They were having at each other as if the world was ending because, frankly, neither of them might survive the week with an entire drug cartel on their heels. It was only fitting for both of them to treat threats against their lives so callously – they’d defied death on several occasions and, after all, none of the people after them now were Moriarty. If they could survive Jim, they could survive this, but nonetheless the sentiment remained.

“ _Harder_ , John,” he spat, letting his head remain slackened back and groaning with diaphragm behind it to give projection. If Mycroft wasn’t already here, he would be any minute, and this would make the perfect comeback after his sarcasm on the phone.

John didn't need any more urging than that - sitting up slightly so he had a better angle, he scooped both hands under Sherlock to cup his arse, holding it in place as he took him deeper. He was conflicted, truth be told, torn between closing his eyes to focus on the taste and keeping them wide open to watch the breathtaking scene in front of him. He settled for the latter, narrowing his eyes to slits, but keeping them trained on Sherlock. All the while, John hollowed his cheeks more and more until the pressure was dizzying. His jaw was aching and his mouth was salty and he was lightheaded and he loved all of it, because all of it was for him, and _only_ him, to enjoy. To experience Sherlock achieving orgasm was to experience a little slice of heaven, to John's mind - loud, mobile, wet heaven, but heaven nonetheless. This thought in mind, he hummed low in encouragement around Sherlock's cock and sped up, maintaining the dizzying pressure and caressing the flesh inside his mouth with attentive flicks of his tongue.

He asked John to suck harder, but _good god_ he hadn't anticipated this. Rather than bucking, Sherlock's back had taken on a permanent arch, frozen in paralytic pleasure from John's vicious approach. The hands at his arse, the tongue, the truly lecherous moaning against him - it didn't take long under the other man's care before he came in one long, blinding moment so powerful his hips lifted off the bed entirely. As it washed back out, Sherlock collapsed fully into the mattress on his back, shivering from the effort and making quiet, nonsensical utterances to usher John over. He felt as though his eyes were staring off in separate directions, and his arms were completely useless, utterly laid to waste. To think that such a simple, unassuming man such as John Watson could become as much of an unapologetic demon in the bedroom was something no one, not even Sherlock, could have ever deduced or anticipated.

John, of course, greedily swallowed everything Sherlock had to give - and it was no less satisfying than the first time. In fact, he almost protested when the other man pulled off before he was able to lick clean the entire area, but to crawl over and settle against Sherlock's pleasured body was decidedly better, so he did. Unconcerned with whether the man could handle his weight at the current moment, John slipped up to lay flat on top of Sherlock, chest to chest, heart to hammering heart. He couldn't resist leaning up to steal a kiss from the gibbering detective, silencing him and relaxing him all at once. When he pulled away, John rested his chin in the middle of Sherlock's damp chest, enjoying the gentle and needed warmth that the proximity of both bodies created. He shot a boyish smile up at the other man.

"I almost wish Mycroft walked in. Though, admittedly, you might not have come. And that would have been a tragedy for me."

"John, you know me better than that," he chided breathlessly, "you know perfectly well I would have just to be contrary and spite him." They laughed together weakly, still spent. "But I think we made sufficient noise to effectively warn him from coming in. He almost certainly-" On cue, Sherlock was interrupted by the tapping of an umbrella handle against his door. "Busy," he replied childishly, earning a half-hearted slap on the hip from John. Taking long enough to pull John into a deep embrace and kiss him, he hauled himself out of bed on watery knees and cracked the door open. "Mycroft," he greeted with his customary mocking cheerfulness, "lovely to see you as always." His face spread in a wide, toothy grin just to irritate him further.

"All your blustering concern from earlier appears to have vanished," Mycroft replied with a dour expression. "And while it appears congratulations are in order, I hope you can forgive my and the detective inspector's request for brevity." Mycroft turned a bit to show Sherlock a _very_ uncomfortable Lestrade staring at him from the living room, accompanied by two passive, black-suited men.

John's nose crinkled in that way it did when he was trying to hold in a laugh, and he swung his feet off the bed, rolling his shoulders back. Seconds later his face appeared in the crack in the door approximately a foot underneath Sherlock's.

"Hallo, Mycroft," he greeted the diplomat with infuriating casualty, an easy grin sliding onto his face that one could only have gotten from a vigorous bout of sex. He gave a friendly nod in the DI's direction. "Greg." Turning his attention back to the man with the umbrella, John regarded him lazily and with distinct lack of importance. "We'll be out in a bit, just give us a few moments." He shut the door then, to the nod and slight eye roll of the British Government outside. John turned to Sherlock and rose on his toes to plant a kiss on his lips. He quirked an eyebrow amusedly and said in a quieter voice, "Not exactly the way I pictured telling people, but it certainly works. Now come on, get dressed. You've got to go be important at a crime scene somewhere."

"That I do," Sherlock replied quietly. Now that the high was wearing off, worry began mounting again. John had padded off to the other side of the bed to gather his clothes, regarding his ruined shirt with a wry expression.

"John," he said, walking over to stand next to him. "Mycroft will be taking you somewhere safe. Even I won't know where you're going. It...might be a few days. Much as I'd like you to stay here, it isn't secure." Instinct wanted him to embrace the other man, but kept his distance due to the unpleasantness of the matter at hand. "I _will_ put this right." He met John's eyes with determination.

A cold grip seized John's chest, though he kept as passive as possible as he slipped on his pants and trousers, finally lifting his eyes to meet Sherlock's gaze when he was sure he had control of it. The words came surprisingly easily.

"I know. I trust you."

He hadn't meant the meaning to be nuanced; it just came out that way. Buttoning and zipping up his trousers, he stood upright and rigid, shoulders squared. He understood and he trusted, but that didn't mean he had to like it. He moved over to the drawer, pawing through Sherlock's clothes for a shirt that might fit him, then froze as his fingers brushed something soft. He grinned and pulled out his ugliest of Christmas jumpers.

"You really weren't joking." He tossed it on the bed and pulled out a white collared shirt that was slightly too long for him but that fit alright in girth, and John turned to face a dressing Sherlock. There was nothing to be done about the strain in his voice. "I suppose...goodbye, for now, then?"

Sherlock's face fell at the sight of John's resigned expression, pausing in the midst of re-buttoning his shirt. He only nodded in response, biting the inside of his cheek. He was blessed enough that John hadn't written him off after his explanation - now he absolutely had to make sure he came home safe. Unable to contain himself any longer, he stepped forward and put his hands to either side of John's face and merely stared at him for several moments, committing the feel of his skin and every crease in his face to memory anew. "I..." He didn't know what to say that wouldn't be redundant.

The moment was there; the moment Sherlock himself had to acknowledge this was happening. And when Sherlock himself was stumbling and emotional, John knew it was almost time to leave. So, drawing upon reserves of strength, John lifted his eyes to Sherlock's and reached a hand up to cover one of the other man's cupping his face. He smiled - sadly, but only just. John turned his head and kissed Sherlock's palm. "Be safe."

The lack of some explosive, confession-laden moment between them now, especially after the sex they'd just had, provided no convenient outlet for Sherlock's soaring anxiety. _I can't do this_ , he thought to himself. Doubt, so alien to him a mere ten years ago and now seemingly around every turn, assailed him - how he loathed the feeling. Should he say anything more? He put absolutely no stock into the concept of superstition, but if there was ever a time to be wary of it, it was now; if the opportunity were taken now to say all he wanted, _just in case_ , it felt as though it would doom them. An absolutely stupid sentiment, but there it was. John, as well, would write off anything of the like himself. That decided it for him.

"Of course," he finally replied before bowing to kiss him, doing his best to repress his desperation from bleeding into it. He could feel it in John, too. "Love you," he murmured as they pulled apart. He went to the door and, just like that fateful day before Moriarty’s trial, looked to John. "Ready?"

It seemed strange to want Sherlock to pour his heart out - they were both thinking it, but just like all those moments of stubborn silence between the two, just like that day on the rooftop years ago, neither of them spoke any of the thoughts screaming between them. But why not? What was this obligation to continue this facade? Why must they always remain strong and impassive? John didn't know. He had this wildly cathartic compulsion to yell, to break things, to tear down the wallpaper and break the beakers and shatter this silence and fill it to the brim with the emotion they were both always so afraid to show. Instead, he looked over to Sherlock, the only visible rebellion to this seemingly natural order of repression glimmering in his eyes. He stepped up to the door next to Sherlock. 'Ready?' he’d asked.

_No._

 "Yes."

Sherlock bit back his fear and slipped his usual cold, implacable mask on once again as he swept the door open, allowing John to go first. Mycroft's eyes were waiting for him, boring into the side of his skull and driving his already unpleasant mood towards homicidal. He took a moment to meet his brother's gaze, redirecting his apprehension and sadness into wordless threat, if Mycroft's security were to fail. He received a twitching eyebrow in response, as if to say _please, Sherlock_. Reassuring, in his own way. Satisfied, he regarded Lestrade.

"Scene still secure?"

"Yeah, waiting on you," the detective inspector replied easily, no trace of accusation in his voice. Mindful of Sherlock and John's probably obvious stress. "Take the cruiser?"

"I suppose."

"I will be returning to the office to...observe," Mycroft added. "John will go with these gentlemen." He gestured to the suited men. "You will be texted, of course, should anything be found. Speaking of, John."

John raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement. Mycroft held out a hand.

"Your mobile, please. Can't have anyone tracking your location. Rest assured it will be returned to you, though with some...improvements." At John's increased confusion, he responded, "Sherlock's phone has long had certain safeguards in place to prevent a number of issues regarding surveillance via mobile. Safeguards which, I regret to admit, has never crossed either of our minds to add to yours. That will be remedied." Sherlock gave an approving nod. Silence filled in quickly between the six men in the room.

"D'you ne-" Lestrade opened.

"No," John and Sherlock said simultaneously. They shared a look.

John frowned back a strained look and fished out his phone from his pocket. He handed it over to the waiting diplomat before clearing his throat.

"Let's just go." He felt his voice was permanently stretched and his feet permanently leaden. Once given the go-ahead, the men acted quickly. One herded him out the door, while the other led the way in front of him. At the last moment as they stepped out the door, John turned his head quickly to lock in a gaze with Sherlock, wide-eyed and scared, everything he couldn't show when he was given the chance. The door shut, and he was ushered into a sleek black car.

"Will you be needing food or water, sir?"

John hesitantly glanced over and up at one of the tall, bulky security officials. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat to be subtly as far away from the other as possible. "Ah, no. No, thank you." The man gave a curt nod, and the other official slid into the driver's seat.

"Off we go, then."

John gulped and swivelled to look out the back as they drove away, squinting in vain to see any familiar shape in the upstairs windows. He saw none.

Sherlock felt as though all his internal organs simply dropped out bottom when he met John's eyes. In one act of brazen stupidity years past, he had legitimately _frightened_ John. That was never supposed to happen, not to the nerves-of-steel veteran who had stared down sniper scopes and been fitted with vests of plastic explosives. Sherlock continued staring at the door long after John had gone, lost to misery. Eventually a hand lay at his arm.

"Sherlock." Lestrade caught his eye, openly sympathetic.

"Yes, of course." He stitched up his cool facade and replaced it, though even to him it felt he'd set it akilter.

"Between the three of us, we can take care of this, eh?" the detective inspector offered to vacuous silence, Sherlock too upset to mock him and Mycroft far too aloof to comment further.

"I'll be in touch," Mycroft said, making for the door a little too quickly and steadfastly avoiding looking at Sherlock. The thud of the door to the outside finally roused Sherlock.

"We have work to do."

"Right." Lestrade followed Sherlock out to his cruiser. Once seated inside and headed out, he finally dared to speak again.

"Everything will be fine, Sherlock."

And, for once, Sherlock was too far gone for simple ignorance.

"There's no other outcome to consider, Greg." He did his best to ignore Lestrade's open shock at the use of his first name and turned to look out the window.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

They arrived along the bank of the Thames, near a collection of abandoned warehouses. Sherlock could barely summon enough motivation to reference his internal map of the city and compare the two sites where body parts were found. As they dismounted from the cruiser, Sally began striding up to meet Lestrade, an indignant look on her face. She looked as if she was about to speak, but was shut down by one of the most intense expressions Sherlock had ever seen on Lestrade's face. Sally, apparently, too; she pulled an expression of surprise bordering on fear and said nothing.

"Go," was all the detective inspector said, pulling on Sally's arm to speak with her privately. So he did, marching resignedly, other officers parting for him with raised eyebrows and whispers behind hands. He snatched up a pair of gloves from a nearby forensic kit and put them on. Dimly he thought he recognized Anderson talking next to him, but again couldn't summon a reason to care. The arm told him next to nothing he hadn't already figured out since Bart's. The markings on the head were present on the bicep, the same grey tint of skin John (clever, knowledgeable John) had pointed out. Needle marks in the interior of the elbow, confirming his primary theory of drug use. Perhaps Molly had an identity by now - that would make it easier to narrow down a probable area in which to search.

"Sherlock."                       

He looked up to see Lestrade crouching in front of him, the arm between them. "What do you need?"

"Need? I don't need anything." He pointedly chose to avoid meeting Lestrade's eyes when he said that.

Lestrade shrugged uncomfortably. "You've been sitting next to it for ten minutes. Haven't picked it up or anything. Are you even..."

"Yes, I am. I always am. Even when I don't want to."

The Yarder's eyes shut briefly in a soft wince. "Nothing new, then?"

"No. There may still be physical evidence under the nails and whatnot. Maybe make a timeline of past locations. If we're lucky."

"Sherlock."

He forced himself to meet his friend's gaze. His greyed eyebrows were tilted down just the slightest, encouraging and chastising at the same time. _You haven't time for this self-pity. John needs you._

Lestrade and Sherlock watched forensics begin bagging up the arm and preparing it for transport to Bart's. Once assured the limb was on its way, they began making for Lestrade's vehicle once again. Sherlock was just about to shut the door on his side when Sally came running up.

"Before you go, sir...you asked me to sit on the radio for anything weird?"

~

The ride was almost peacefully quiet, if not for the rebellious vibrating of every single blood cell in John's body. He wanted to be out, out, _out._ This car was like a leather-bound prison - a confinement cell, bringing him farther and farther away from the one place and the one man with which he could call home. A few times he had to breathe deeply just to keep from having an anxiety attack. The driver always avoided his eye in the rear-view mirror, and the man next to him politely ignored him.

Eventually, John fell silent, staring dully at the black leather of the seat in front of him. "Where are we going, exactly?"

The man beside him chuckled. "Can't tell you yet, sir. Highly confidential, and all."

John frowned, and turned to look at the man next to him. It was for this exact reason he didn't see out the window the car perpendicular speeding toward his passenger side. "But why not? We're already in the-"

_Slam._

~

Sherlock's spine went rigid and he turned to look at Lestrade. He was doing a better job of keeping it together, but he was clearly shaken.

"Yes?"

"Could be nothing, but there was a multi-car wreck on the edge of the city. And shots fired."

"Make of the cars?" Sherlock asked sharply. Sally balked.

"I-I don't have a full desc-"

" _What kind of car?_ "

"Two...black sedans...what d'you care?"

Sherlock was back up and out of the car in a split second, stalking for the main road to get a taxi. Lestrade was calling after him, but he paid it little mind until the other man cut him off and took him by the shoulders.

"Sherlock, you can't-"

"I can, and I will."

"As a law enforcement officer, I can't let you just-"

"Don't know what you're talking about, inspector, I'm merely returning home. Which, unless we suddenly live in a totalitarian state, I can do and will."

"I know damned bloody well that's not what you're doing."

"Don't you? Plausible deniability, Lestrade. Take advantage of it. Because if you attempt to impede me again, you will regret it." Sherlock levelled him with a murderous stare that put the other man back on his heels. He took advantage and began walking again. From within his pocket, he felt his phone vibrate. Mycroft. He didn't dare answer - he was far too incensed to talk to his brother peaceably at the moment. One call, two. Three. Finally he seemed to get the point and began texting instead.

_In pursuit. A good job of covering themselves - may have changed licence plates. -MH_

_I intend to see this through with all available focus and assistance, I assure you. -MH_

_Brash action will result in disaster. All of this can be remedied without overreaction. -MH_

Sherlock did indeed take a taxi, but not back to Baker Street. Instead, he arrived at the Vauxhall Arches and disappeared deep into the dark underneath them for an old haunt. What once was an excellent den for getting high, he had repurposed into something of a safe house during his time abroad on the few instances he'd returned to London. Underneath cracked cement he uncovered a battered but no less functional pistol and additional ammunition. His grip around it was taut to the point of pain; he snapped the slide back to load the chamber. Once stowed away in his coat, he pulled his phone out again.

"Molly?"

"Oh, hello Sherlock. What d'you need?" He dug deep to keep himself something close to his normal amount of dourness.

"Have you a name for the head - more importantly, a home address?"

"Yes, actually, I do. Marcus Bergman." She gave his address: out in Greenwich. Probably long since invalid.

"Thank you. Tell no one I called."

"Um, su-"

He hung up. A text almost immediately followed.

_Van has been found on the east side. The second you arrive in the district, I will know it. -MH_

A vague threat. Pointless.

_No, you won't. -SH_  

~

John was flying.

No, that wasn't right. People can't fly. He was falling, then, tumbling in a constant motion as the car rolled four times. When it ceased its acrobatics, the vehicle lay on its head, wheels turned up and still spinning as though frantically trying to reach some unknown destination. John's first thought: damage control. Spine appeared uninjured. Shoulder lacerated from seatbelt. Head suffered moderate concussion, but nothing that wouldn't fade with rest. Whiplash, too, no doubt.

Preliminary assessment: John = okay.

He unhooked his seatbelt and carefully shifted to look at the man lying next to him. _Check vitals, John._

He reached two fingers out to the man's neck, only to flinch away quickly as some unseen force on the other side of the car pummel the man's body, causing him to bleed out of all sorts of previously unseen holes. It was then that the adrenaline in John's body faded just enough for him to hear a steady beat. Was someone playing music nearby? He blinked, still dizzy and extremely disoriented, until something clicked - a memory of sand and war. Not a beat. A machine gun. The driver's body, too, was now being pelted with bullets, and despite his aching body, John curled up to protect his head from the ricochets. The bullet-beat stopped. Shaking, John blearily unfurled himself and had just enough presence of mind to slip the dead passenger's concealed handgun into his jacket before his own window was smashed, making him cringe and ball up again.

"Found him!" John could practically _smell_ the burning muzzle of a warm semi-automatic being pointed at him, but another voice cut through.

"Wait! Don't kill him yet!" Footsteps getting closer, then the voice again. "We need to bring him in alive, 'member?" Suddenly two pairs of hands were hauling him out of the overturned window, dragging his body through the scattered shards of glass. John bit hard into the collar of his jacket to keep from making a sound as the shards cut into his back. When he was out in the light of day again, he opened his eyes and squinted, trying to focus his blurry vision on his attackers.

"He i’n't even unconscious," the one closest his head muttered as the two of them carried his limp body. The one carrying his legs searched John's face, and nodded at a third unseen being. Seconds later, his vision went dark brown and he felt roughness surrounding his face and his equilibrium change as he was slung into what he presumed to be the back of a van. Logically, he should have cried out for the pain, but he was dazed from the crash and anyway, there was a nice, sweet smell to the inside of the sack over his head. His medical brain sluggishly worked to supply a name as his world grew darker and darker.

Chloro...chloro...something... 

When John finally came to his senses, he knew a few things. One, he was no longer moving. Two, there was a low murmur of voices around him. Three, his entire body hurt like all hell. And four, the gun inside his jacket was gone. He tried to shift his position on the cold, damp ground, earning both a stab of aching pain from his entire body and an irritating chafing from somewhere down near his wrists. Oh, yeah. Five, he'd been kidnapped.

"Oi, he's awake." The murmur of voices immediately hushed and as John blinked his vision into focus, he looked up from the dank cement ground and struggled to sit up. Little waves of chuckling when he failed the first time, but he gritted his teeth and tried again, finally managing to keep himself upright. He tilted his head up at the man who walked forward. "Ey, check 'im for memory," some bloke in the back of the lounging group of men called.

The man in front of John bent down. "Tell me your name." Something in John stirred - some memory from a far-off time.

"John Watson, Captain, 807760." The congregation burst into laughter and the man in front of him bent down.

"You think you're in war, doctor Watson?" He looked John directly in his dulled blue eyes. John said nothing. The man smirked humourlessly. "It i'n't any war you've been trained for."

From this close, John could see the clear signs of habitual drug use, as well as those of a violent offender. "I see you," was all he could manage in a hoarse, broken voice. More laughter. The man bared a horrible grin.

"Chances are I'll be the last thing you ever see." John's face remained stoic. He'd stood down Moriarty - comparatively, this man was shitting rainbows.

Eventually, "Why's that?"

"Your...companion, Holmes?" A careful composure kept, though a slight glimmer in John's eyes. "He took down a lot of good men-" Despite his condition, John scoffed at the man's words, and suddenly the toe of a boot was digging into his liver. He let out his breath in a broken whoosh of air, and tilted his head to look back up at the man, who was standing again and glowering down at him. "As I said, he took down a lot of good men. Put a lot more in danger. Created a lot of problems, and stole a lot of things." Internally, John smiled. Yes, that was definitely Sherlock. "Think of yourself as...collateral."

He sighed. It was a pathetic sound. "He'll find you." The man tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.

"Not before he finds you."

~

Three lively interrogations of local drug dealers later, Sherlock hunched in an abandoned house on the east end of London. His coat and normal suit had been done away with, replaced instead with god-awful track pants and hoodie he'd...appropriated from one of the dealers. As he sat plotting, another text came in from Mycroft.

_This is empty hubris. You will kill John. -MH_

_If John is to die due to ineptitude, he and I both would prefer it be mine as opposed to anyone else's. -SH_

He silenced his phone completely after that - no more distractions. From the dealers, he had managed to gather that four or so men were huddled in the second story of a wrecked building. The van had been abandoned just far enough away so as to detract immediate attention. Recalling the typical MO of the organization, Sherlock knew the man in charge would not be with those holding John; the plan, apparently, was to capture Sherlock on sight as well, through the assistance of sightings by corner dealers like the ones Sherlock had interrogated. He would be taken elsewhere for demands in exchange for John's life. If the search proved too lengthy, however, the order was to kill John and Sherlock at a moment's notice. Time was very much not on Sherlock's side, especially with how long it had taken to do proper reconnaissance and information gathering. 

Taking a quick second for searching eyes, Sherlock stuffed his hands in the hoodie pockets and walked out onto the sidewalk, hood up, head down, shoulders hunched in the typical silhouette of the urban youth. He cased the building from across the street - no obvious signs of surveillance on the outside. Probably a man on the inside of the door. There was likely rooftop access from behind. If not, he could always enter in from an adjacent one and go across the top that way. He walked for another two blocks, well out of sight to keep cover, though it physically ached to put the ramshackle building behind him. He went around a block and began cutting back, securing the gun in the back of his pants in preparation for a lot of jumping. They would be expecting the common entrance, and Sherlock was anything but common. Whatever happened, at most two people would be walking out of the room alive.

~

If he stayed staunch and quiet, they were less likely to beat him. Not that John couldn't take it, but he wasn't exactly young anymore and that crash had done a number on his physical endurance. If he stayed quiet, he might buy Sherlock more time. _He won't let them have me. He won't let them have me. He won't let them have me._

It was a mantra that worked for a good few minutes, but the problem with criminals was that they became violent when they were bored. John sat patiently upright, hands bound behind him, feet bound and legs tucked underneath him. He stared straight ahead of him, and the man from before sidled up to him casually. "Oi."

John remained silent and still. This wasn't his first time. "Oi!" A kick to the stomach, probably the fourth one that day. He'd grown out of making a sound when it happened, choosing the brutal gnashing of his teeth together over allowing them the satisfaction of a whimper. The man smirked and bent his knees so he was squatting in front of John. "Think you're so brave? Lion heart, eh?"

John lifted his dulled eyes to meet the man's. He had an ugly face. The kind whose smile only twisted it more. The man bared his teeth, and John amused himself by imagining him transforming into a goat right before his eyes. "You know what I used to do lions, in Africa?" He leaned forward slightly, keeping John's gaze. "Shoot 'em through the heart, and skin 'em."

_Please, Sherlock. Please come soon, so I can get free and show him how deadly lions really are._

 

~

In the end, Sherlock had needed to take the roundabout approach, entering a nearby building and jumping quietly as he could roof to roof until he was upon his target. There was a ladder running down the back wall; he tipped himself onto it quietly as possible and edged down to an available window. Taking the rungs tightly in his hands and steeling himself, he leant over for a surreptitious glance through the dirty window. Four men, as were mentioned, one of them doing...something that looked like dancing, it was hard to tell due to the state of the window. Slowly, it sunk in - he was kicking, and there was little doubt as to what...or rather who...was being kicked. Sherlock's last mental safety released and the edges of his vision went red. A quick glance down told him the window on the ground floor was shattered out. The ladder, fortunately, went to the ground, so Sherlock ducked down briefly to look. There was indeed a man at the door - alone. The element of surprise was his only chance, and shooting him, while easiest, would ruin it.

Decision made, he slipped in the window, the ruckus upstairs muffling his entrance just enough. He padded on tiptoes in silent advance, flipped his knife relocated from his trench coat and dug it into the man's right kidney - a strike so incredibly painful the entire body seized, preventing him from crying out. He caught the falling man in surprisingly gentle arms, laying him down almost soundlessly before jabbing the blade into his carotid. Dead in minutes. Finally palming his gun, he treaded the stairs lightly, arriving at a door slightly ajar enough for him to peek through. John was soundless in his reactions, only giving violent puffs of air as boot connected with flesh. He wasn't nearly as excellent a shot as John; pretty good paled in comparison to near-superhuman. It didn't matter too much, though, when the man in question was slipping towards homicidal mania. With one preparatory inhalation, Sherlock kicked the door and shot once at the man beating John, scoring a hit in the torso. He would only aim to wound, for now. They could always die cowering later.

He fired a couple more covering shots off to his right to appropriately cow them further. Being inside of fifty feet from his attackers, he rushed the others headlong as they scrambled for their own guns. Sherlock chose the biggest one first, swapping the gun into his non-dominant hand. He slipped a foot in between the man's aggressive stance, flipped him easily over the hip and into the floor ruthlessly. That gave him a few, precious seconds to advance on the third, grab his outstretched pistol and turn his wrist in on itself, pushing in one vicious movement to snap it clean. The last man shot wildly with a single hand - even at their relatively close distance he missed. Sherlock opted to simply drop his gun as the other man retreated in panic to the wall. Sherlock caught him, spun him around and pinned an arm behind before shoving it up to break it. The second man gave a groan, still dazed from the throw but quickly recovering. Sherlock turned to see him wriggling to pick up his gun, most likely to shoot John. He strode forward confidently, sweeping up the gun and, after levelling properly, shot him in the head.

Throughout the duration, he didn't dare look at John, lest his helpful murderous haze break. He had noticed that his partner had pushed himself along the floor best he could to avoid the grasp of the first wounded man. The men with broken arms both pleaded openly, but to no mercy - Sherlock just shot them as well without finesse. The first man, however, bleeding and gasping on the floor, he merely disarmed after pistol whipping him. John could have him if he wished. If he was capable. He trotted over to his wounded lover, cutting the zip ties at his wrists and ankles with shaking hands.

"John, love." He didn't care if the remaining man heard the pet name. He'd be dead soon, after all. John struggled to sit up, still obviously winded from the assault. Sherlock dropped to his knees and took him in clawing arms. 

Throughout the attack, John had one job: stay out of Sherlock's way. The man performed brilliantly, and John swelled with quiet pride despite his partner's actions. When, at length, Sherlock came to him, John felt like he was slumping forward into the arms of a guardian angel - well, he sort of was. He gave a grand, sparkling smile before it faded and he looked past his love to the man on the floor. Said man, when locking in a gaze with John, tried to scramble away, but didn't get far.

There wasn't much to be done. John crawled over to him calmly, if a little wobbly, picking up a switchblade lying nearby. He didn't flinch as he leaned over him, and the man didn't even have time to scream as John sliced a main carotid artery with terrifying accuracy, killing him within the second. It had been a clean slice. There wasn't even /that/ much blood.

Once the deed was done, John flung the brutish weapon away from him and collapsed on his back, unable to rally the strength enough to keep himself sitting upright. He turned his whiplashed head to look up and sideways at his thin, dark saviour, sliding a hand toward him and calling his name weakly. John hadn't wanted to belabour the kill. Quick, clean, efficient, minimal effort.

That's how lions did it, anyway.

Sherlock waited to utter his obligatory rebuts until after John killed the last man. He came over quickly when he was beckoned, picking John's torso gently up while supporting his neck until he laid him back down on his own legs.

"M fine," John mumbled into Sherlock's shoulder.

He fished his mobile out of the hoodie pocket and texted Mycroft with the address. His brother could take care of the rest. He slid a hand through John's mussed, slightly bloodied hair. The car accident had clearly done a number on him - lots of cuts of varying degrees, particularly the gash in his shoulder from what most likely was the seatbelt. His pupils belied an almost certain concussion. Untold amounts of internal damage from the kicking, too. Sherlock's hand swept up John's ruined shirt to have a look. Burgeoning bruises, but none appearing significant enough to imply internal bleeding. John also seemed uncomfortable lying on his back, as well. Shushing him lovingly, he tipped John briefly onto his side - cuts on his back, probably also from the car accident, but as to how Sherlock had no idea.

"You are very much not fine, John. Don't insult my observational skills," he said, aiming for dark, weak humour to placate himself. He also didn't appear to be able to walk, thankfully only because of depleted stamina as opposed to direct injury to his legs, or, God forbid, his spine. "Downstairs," he mumbled, heaving John up in his arms. Tucking the smaller man as securely as he could against his chest, Sherlock made it down the stairs gingerly, only just remembering the man at the door once he set foot on the first floor. He had moved, though not much before death. It took a second, however, for Sherlock to register an object next to the man's head - a mobile. He could hear a buzzing dial tone. There was no way to know if he'd been successful, but if he had...reinforcements were coming, and quickly. John suddenly, astonishingly light in his arms, he dashed back the way he'd come in towards the window.

"I'm going to need you to help me, John. Stay with me." He slipped John's legs out the window and let him brace best he could against the moulding for support as he all but oozed out the back window. Clutching onto Sherlock for dear life, John did as he was told, did what he _had_ to - he recognized the immediate danger, and summoned any reserves of adrenaline he had to pump through him and shield the pain and give him the energy to reach safety. John crumpled on the ground outside the first floor window when he was gently helped through it, and crawled a few feet before pushing against the wall to stand himself up. His bones creaked, but he was here. He was out. He was free.

But he wanted Sherlock with him. John had just gotten him back - why was he being taken away again? Anxiety building to almost overcome the fatigue, John leaned his cut up back gingerly against the outside wall and, for the first time in his life, prayed he'd see Mycroft Holmes soon.

Sherlock followed suit out the window, looking around the immediate area. The buildings were crowded around them - he only needed to find an effective place to hide for a half an hour or so. He gestured to John, picking him up again and assisted by something close to panic in heaving his body weight. He took off down an alleyway blindly, counting on his internal reference map to give Mycroft an accurate location later. A revving engine echoed off the narrow, high walls around him, spiking adrenaline in his spine. He kicked in an anonymous door one street down and a block over. An ancient business of some kind, long since left to rot. Taking just long enough to shut the door in imitation of never having been opened, he rushed for yet another set of stairs, impaired by John's weight. Once up top, he spun around looking for something, anything to hide in. A wardrobe made itself apparent, with a functioning door and everything. It would be pitch inside - hopefully John wouldn't panic in his confusion. He set John down, opened it and ushered the injured and exhausted man inside before following and shutting the door behind him. John had collapsed to hands and knees and was barely managing to maintain that; Sherlock sat himself up against a dingy wall and pulled John into his lap, securing him with an arm around his chest. He wriggled free his gun and cocked it for good measure. He set his phone back to vibrate and texted Mycroft.

_Being pursued. Have hidden. Not sure how long it will last. Hurry. -SH_

He stowed the phone at the edge of his pocket in order to muffle the noise of it going off, but still easily accessible. "Absolute silence, John," he murmured, though he doubted he really needed to tell the other man, no matter how addled he was. His left arm latched around John reached down briefly and snatched up a hand in his own, holding it tightly over the top of a wrist. His gun hand rested on John's lap, shaking like a leaf along with the rest of him. Not trusting his voice, he opted to merely kiss just behind John's ear in reassurance.

John silenced even his own breathing, opting to use his diaphragm to pull air into his mouth for a deep breath rather than his lungs to breathe noisily and shallowly. He felt as though his heart was ping-ponging off the walls of his thoracic cavity, but even with a surge of adrenaline, there was no panic. Perhaps it was the stress training from his military days, but John liked to think it was Sherlock's presence - his warm, protective clutch around John - that made him calm. His vision became sharp and narrow, and every weary fibre of his body tensed. His head was level, his mind focussed. In the midst of enveloping silence, John squeezed Sherlock's hand ever so slightly; _I'm here, and I have faith in you._

Sherlock struggled to keep his breathing soft and even, taking what solace he could in John's tightened grip on his hand. Minutes stretched by in a seeming eternity - as they did, they began to hear dulled shouts through the tattered walls around them. Individuals searching and calling to one another. Bit by bit they came closer, echoing easily amongst the hollowed buildings. Sherlock had a passing thought to text Mycroft again to hasten, but frankly was too frozen in fear to do much of anything. If they were found, they had zero chance of escape. Maybe they could kill the first man, but the others would certainly come running and any help would be far too late. For however well John was handling it, Sherlock found himself growing more and more terrified. He wasn't combat-trained, unprepared to resign himself to death if necessary; he was clever and quick and always slipped the noose at the last possible second. Never trapped like the proverbial rat by his own doings. He hung his head over John's shoulder and pressed the side of his face into his partner's. John's hand tightened in his own, and his head turned to press his mouth to Sherlock's temple soundlessly.

Being able to feel as well as see Sherlock Holmes become legitimately scared was as dousing as it was infuriating. This man, he _was_ human. He _did_ have fears. And one of them, John learned in an enlightening few seconds as he silently kissed the man's creased forehead, was death. John himself had never really been afraid of death. Many times, especially in times of great darkness, like during the war and after Mary's death, he imagined he would welcome it as an old friend. He still did, but he wasn't so close to finding out anymore. Not when he had this brilliant man to live for - this man, who was at the moment trembling uncontrollably, whose face was pressed into John's own like a child's pressed against a parent's, whose heartbeat was skyrocketing with no foreseeable chance of slowing down. It made him mad. So...so mad. This man wasn't ready to die. The world had let this man down. John intended to make up for every last iota of it.

Finally pulling his mouth away from Sherlock's forehead, he slowly and steadily slipped his free hand into Sherlock's grasp and took the gun. He forced Sherlock to look him in the eye as best he could in the dim lighting, staring him down intently.

  _I'm a better shot than you are,_ he tried to send to Sherlock _. If it comes to that, I'll need less bullets._ He lifted the gun and pointed it at the door. His hand didn't shake a centimetre. He tilted it momentarily, weighing it and silently estimating how many bullets it was still good for. Felt like a decent amount. Perfect.

Sherlock let John take the gun, understood what John was trying to tell him, but he nonetheless was ashamed of himself. All that effort put in to kill five men unblinkingly and now here he was, cowering behind his partner in the darkness. Despite Sherlock's numerous talents, they had quantifiable limits. John, however, though he had fewer talents than Sherlock, had no limits where he was truly superlative. He supposed it was part of what made them such a perfect functioning unit - mind and heart, straightforward bravery and quick-witted cunning. Relieved of his duty, Sherlock wrapped his now-free limb around John, hand splayed over the other man's shoulder. There was a loud slam somewhere beneath them that made Sherlock jump minutely - a door being kicked in. They'd moved into their building, though it was unlikely because they'd actually found them, rather just part of the search. Still, it wouldn't be long, now. Turning his head, he buried his face in John's neck, breathing in the scent of him underneath the blood and a hint of smoke leftover from the hijacking.

He was so distracted with blocking out any stimuli to prevent crying out that at first he didn't hear faint sirens approaching. It wasn't until John slackened against him that he came to with a jolt. Shutting his eyes in relief, he still kept a fast hold on John. _Not until we're sure. They will come find us once it's safe._

That irritating wail was heaven-sent. Or Mycroft-sent; they were one and the same at the moment. John relaxed his tensed shoulders when the sirens' call grew closer, and gratefully placed his free hand over Sherlock's tight grip across his chest. Slowly the hand slid up the path of Sherlock's arm, easily and tenderly tracing up the side of his cheek in the dark and without needing to turn and look. John spread his hand in Sherlock's soft curls, but rather than make any soothing movements, he gently pushed the other's head down until he had to hunch and his face was between John's shoulder blades. The other man was taller, and John knew any headshot at all from such a short firing distance would be fatal. His fierce, unflinching protectiveness would not let that head be anybody else's but his own. He did not drop his arm - there were no guarantees that whoever opened that door would not be threatening; therefore, there were no guarantees that whoever opened that door would not be shot.

Sherlock silently protested a moment by not moving, but John's rigid insistence forced him to obey. He bowed his forehead into the joint of John's neck and shoulders and listened to the sirens come closer. Footsteps previously close by drifted off in an uneven, hurried cadence but still the two men didn't move. They sat patiently for another ten minutes, until they heard bursts of shouting begin filtering in, unintelligible at first. Sherlock seized his phone when it buzzed between the two men.

_Radius is clear for three blocks of the address. Where are you? What is John's condition? -MH_

Sherlock truly sagged in relief against John, ignoring a reply for now to hold the other man tight against him. "We're fine. It's safe, now." His voice cracked and peaked with residual fear, but relief, too, was laden in his tone. "I can't imagine you'd deign to be carried out. Should I have them come up for us?" He bent in to kiss John's neck desperately to relieve himself further.

At first sound of the buzzing in Sherlock's pocket, John let out a loud sigh of relief. Both men knew what it meant, and when John heard Sherlock speak, that only solidified it even more. His shoulders slumped but he bent his neck at the touch of Sherlock's lips, inclining it toward his frantic mouth in offering. His voice, when it came, was no less hoarse than that of a man who'd been through two death scares that day, and rightfully so. Still, the little appeal of "Please," was soft but significantly less strained than it had been all day.

Sherlock slipped himself out from behind John carefully, gesturing for the gun just in case. Once given he opened the door gingerly, checking forward and behind the door before relaxing. He heard shouting again - Lestrade, calling his name. He went for a window and leant out of it.

 "Lestrade! Up here!" he shouted; the detective inspector appeared from around a corner, looking a bit panicked. "Have the EMTs come up here - John can't walk. Nothing life threatening, just exhausted." Lestrade nodded up at him and took off back the way he came. Sherlock returned to John, kneeling in front of him in attempt to get a better look at his injuries. "Anything particularly bad I need to know about?" He was no doctor like John, but he could fake his way through it if need be.

"My back. I think there's glass in my back," he wheezed, breathing heavily to expel excess adrenaline. It was unneeded now, and one of the first things one learns in hormone study is how well it can cover up pain. As he flushed his system with deep gulps of oxygen, his body became more and more pained, but in the long run he knew it would help. "Maybe some internal bruising," he muttered, gingerly prodding his purpled stomach. The kicks had pretty much gone to the same area every time. Suddenly, before the EMTs came to huddle around him and take him away, while they were still alone and still together, John reached out to grab Sherlock's hand, squeezing it. "Thank you," he whispered roughly. "You saved my life. That's twice now."

"So easily you forget General Shan and the giant spear thrower? It's at least three times now. For shame, John," he replied with a shaky smirk.

Weakly, John huffed out a little laugh as he allowed himself to be propped upright. "Ah, yes. Three times. Though, you do know not to refer to me as any damsel whatsoever, right? Otherwise, there'd have to be repercussions."

Sherlock turned John around and pulled him by the underarms out of the closet. In the better light, he could see John's shirt torn and bloodied - gingerly he plucked shreds of fabric aside, greeted by small, sparkling bits. "Not much," he said, voice tight, "but yes, you do. Damn it." He swung back around to face the other man, holding him upright with hands on his shoulders. "Let me have a look at your eyes," he asked, tilting John's bowing head with a hand. Pupils were still different sizes and not responding appropriately to the change in light. "You have a concussion. Don't know how bad, but I guess if you can still think straight enough to talk about your injuries it can't be that bad. I will ride with you to the hospital, of course."

He blinked a few more times than necessary and looked confused for a moment. "I feel fine, Sherlock," he said strangely, and the terrifying part of it all was that he _did_ feel fine. His banged-up brain couldn't detect the concussion at all, and that meant it was likely worse than just a little bump.

"Still insulting my observational skills. Such a kind boyfriend." Maybe it _was_ worse than he thought. It didn't matter, all would be fine, soon.

Despite his dizziness, John soon forgot his worry and grinned. "Of course you'll ride with me. You're not going to be out of my sight for quite some time."

"I'll stay with you long as I can," Sherlock replied, spreading a palm under the other man's ear. Shouts caught both their attention - three jacketed men made their appearance, one carrying a board to take John out in. He wouldn't be pleased about that, but it _was_ for the best given the concussion and likely whiplash accompanying it. Much as he wanted to get a last kiss in, there just wasn't time anymore, so he simply slid back and let the EMTs do their job. A few moments later they were joined by both Lestrade and, surprisingly, Mycroft.

"Good God, Mycroft. Are you going to inquire after my health, now? Lord help us, maybe even send John a get well card?"

Mycroft frowned. "Give me the gun, Sherlock." Lestrade pointedly cleared his throat. Sherlock wrested it from his sweatshirt and handed it over. It disappeared into his brother's suit jacket and Lestrade squeezed his eyes shut, pretending he hadn't just seen any of the exchange. A beat passed, and Lestrade couldn't help himself any longer.

"Did you kill every man in that room?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not _every,_ ” he replied pleasantly before returning to John's side.

John sucked in a sharp breath as the EMTs placed him on his back on the board. Head damage was more important than glass shards in one's back, John knew that, but it still hurt like hell. He let out one controlled breath and glanced up to Sherlock, then Lestrade and Mycroft beyond. To the silver-haired DI, he managed a small, cheery smile. "I heard some army man got one of them. I'll see what I can remember about him, maybe give you a sketch." The smile widening ever-so-slightly into a grin, he laid his head back down on the board. _Don't go to sleep, John._

Lestrade, surprised and slightly aggravated at being played with, straightened his stance and cleared his throat. "Right. Yeah, well, Sherlock, we've got the arm waiting for processing down at Bart's. Maybe at some point you can pop down there, have a second look? Might help us in catching these guys."

Sherlock smirked at John's reply but remained just tactful enough not to openly laugh at Lestrade's expense. His friend had gone the extra effort today for him, so he figured he deserved to be cut at least a little bit of slack. "I'll just call Molly to run trace evidence. I'm going with John, and I'd have a word with you, Lestrade. If you and your men manage to be marginally useful, Mycroft, do get in touch," he added icily.

Mycroft, for once, took the hit gracefully, merely inclining his head in acknowledgement. He turned to address the man on the stretcher. "I owe you an apology, John. This is...uncharacteristic, I assure you."

John, eyelashes fluttering just a bit, was too tired and sore to expect many more surprises today. Instead of the usual toned down snark, he just nodded briefly, head rubbing against the stretcher. "I hope so," was all he said, yet it wasn't sarcastic in the slightest - but sincere.

Sherlock tugged the detective inspector aside, speaking lowly. "I may need to leave again. If I do, would you...watch John?"

"Sure, I can get a couple-"

"No, _you_. Only you."

Lestrade's eyes widened before he nodded numbly. "Yeah," he coughed, "Yes, I can do that. Long as you need." He clapped Sherlock on the shoulder reassuringly, and the consulting detective stared at the floor in mild embarrassment.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"No need, Sherlock," Lestrade answered with a small but warm smile.

After finishing the setup of the transport device that much resembled a gurney, the EMTs kept John's head slightly elevated so he'd be disinclined to drift off and began to roll him away. Mycroft watched after them then pulled out his phone, and Sherlock easily kept in step next to John, Lestrade in tow not far behind. Subtly, John's hand slithered over to squeeze Sherlock's. This movement didn't have an unsaid message; he just wanted to reassure himself of his lover's solidity.

Ten minutes later, they were loaded into the ambulance and headed back to central London. Once they were settled in the cabin of the vehicle, Sherlock took John's hand and didn't relinquish it for the entire ride. Adrenalin having long since faded, the events of the day began to pull heavily at his heart. He did his best to keep it off his expression, however, occasionally looking at John and giving a small smile. This had been entirely too close, more so than any threat against John's life before, and given their newly-established status, wholly terrifying. That, coupled with having to relive memories and use skills he wished he never had in the first place, made for a rather dismal mood to set over Sherlock rather quickly.

John had staunchly refused morphine - he wasn't hurting _that_ much, and anyway, weren't they trying to keep him _awake_? That made for a grim, red-edged reality, but at least he was lucid. He couldn't bear to think about leaving Sherlock alone to fester in the events of the day while he drifted off into some drug dream. No. He was going to stay right here. Right here, where he belonged for the rest of his life. And it didn't matter how short or long that may be. At length, he began tracing his fingers along the lines in Sherlock's hands, cataloguing which ones were there since the beginning and which he'd acquired anew. It gave him something positive to focus on, anyway. A thought came to him and he wrinkled his nose. "I strongly suspect I'll be having hospital pudding for dinner tonight."

Sherlock straightened in confusion at John's words. He chuckled quietly. " _Really_ , John. You should know me - or rather, Mycroft - better than that. Surely you realize you're not to be treated in the same manner as the common Londoner. Simply won't do." That was Mycroft's MO when it came to hospital stays. Sherlock had had his share of them in rehab. Private room, afforded every accommodation. At the time he'd regarded the treatment as little more than a gilded cage, but for John it would be far more pleasant and appreciated.

John snorted. Secretly, though, he was appreciative. "In that case, red wine and a candle to make the evening more romantic," he joked, aiming for levity as he quoted a certain rotund beloved restaurant owner.

Sherlock met John's eyes. "How are you feeling?" he asked, already, of course, knowing the answer but humouring him nonetheless.

When the serious question came to him, he raised an eyebrow slightly, a knowing little smile coming over his face. It reached his eyes when he looked back at Sherlock, and they glimmered just a bit. "Been worse." 

The quiet amusement in John's expression wasn't reciprocated in Sherlock. His already grey mood twisted John's reply in his head, making him feel rebuked. He bit his lip, stared at the floor and went silent. Stupid question to ask, even in the name of sympathy. _Of course_ John had seen worse. No need to pick at it restlessly as he did everything else. The man was laying in a bumping ambulance on a back with ground windshield stuck in it. He could deduce John's level of pain easily, and inquired anyway without thought towards tact. One of these days he really needed to learn when to just keep his mouth shut.

Obviously, John needed to watch what he said more. Which was ironic, because that sort of sentiment was usually said about Sherlock. He supposed many things had shifted since the early days. But that was the point of life, wasn't it? Nothing in life was static. If it was, it died quickly for inability to adapt. Humans were not excluded, and neither, then, were relationships. Something John now considered long past him, something he could at least make a little less of a deal out of, was not the same for Sherlock. Nor should it be. John had made his peace - most of it - but why should that mean Sherlock had? Or even if he had, why should that mean he'd made it in the same way? John's brows drew together in a frown, and he lifted a calloused palm to cup Sherlock's face, entirely unconcerned with the EMTs around them. "Hey. Thank you for asking."

Sherlock turned at the touch, saw John's warm and silent reassurance. It eased his mind at least that little bit. They arrived a few minutes later; John was bustled out and Sherlock following on foot. He was stopped soon within, however, by the third EMT, informing him he couldn't go with John during actual treatment. A nurse was waved over to lead the consulting detective upstairs to what eventually would be John's room. He consented, but not politely. John was too far away, still subject to harm at the hands of unknown doctors treating him. If malevolence could touch him in a speeding black sedan, it could strike here, too. But short of starting a fist fight, nothing was going to change. He did his best to swallow his paranoia and headed for the elevator.

It seemed like only a few seconds that John was taken away from the solid, reassuring presence that was Sherlock before he was whisked into a bright white room, surrounded by a huddle of nurses and another doctor. He heard things being called out by the doctor, things he dazedly remembered calling out, and tried to keep his mind clear enough to remember what they meant. It was difficult, though, because as soon as he looked down he realized they'd slipped an IV into him and were feeding him pain relievers, despite his staunch refusal. 

"Glass back," he mumbled, and the doctor looked at him in confusion before realizing. While two nurses tended to the severe bruising on his midsection, another slumped him on his side and began carefully picking out the pieces of windshield that were lodged into his skin. The doctor himself was setting a neck brace for the whiplash and monitoring him for the concussion. John drifted into a drug-induced haze, thoughts flicking, inevitably to Sherlock.

The nurse led Sherlock upstairs and into the private wing of the hospital. She opened a door about halfway down and gestured in invitation. He stepped in with inexplicable trepidation, and she shut the door behind him. Taking in the room around him, he hauled over a sizable, comfy-looking chair and parked it next to the area where John's bed would end up once he was wheeled upstairs. Turning so he was stretched across its arms and letting his feet dangle, he made himself comfortable and put his hands to his customary thinking position out of habit. Today could have been much, much worse, but nonetheless the horror of what they'd both experienced sunk ever deeper into Sherlock's thoughts, darkening his mood further. It hadn't even been twenty-four hours since their text conversation the previous night. The thought of losing something so incredible so soon all but made his heart stop. Their work had gained a frightening new perspective in Sherlock's mind today, strange though it was to say. John had been in danger before, been hurt before, and yet today Sherlock was slowly but undeniably descending into a post-haste panic over the experience. He buried his face in his hands and tried to keep himself together with deep breathing.

Several hours later, the primary doctor who'd been taking care of John wheeled him up to the private wing, carefully pushing the sleeping man on the gurney through the door. He wheeled John and his IV stand over to the man sitting lost in his thoughts, leaving him there. Turning to go, the doctor stopped a moment and turned.

"You're Sherlock?" Surprise and a pause, but eventually a reluctant nod. "He was muttering your name nonstop for about ten minutes before he finally dropped off. Nothing serious, but we took some x-rays just to be sure. Should be awake within the next half hour." With that, he was out the door.

Soon as the doctor was out the door, Sherlock shuffled his seat so it was close to John's bed as possible and took his hand and kissed it. Now having been treated and under fluorescent lighting, John appeared drawn and exhausted even in sleep.

"Never again," he muttered into John's knuckles, "I swear." He'd promised John he'd never let them have him, and while technically he had succeeded by rescuing him, it still felt like a complete failure. Maybe once he was awake, Sherlock would feel better.

_John wasn't sure where he was. He was walking down a street, he thought, but for some reason he didn't recognize it. He felt...wet. It was hard to explain. Glancing down, he realized his heart was bleeding. Confusing - He didn't feel any pain. Looking up, he saw a woman running from out of nearby house, keeping her dress up and out of her path. He blinked. Mum?_

_"John!" she screamed, and when she reached him he realized he was on the ground. He could hear her, now, but he must've closed his eyes because all he could see was blackness, and for the life of him he couldn't open them again._

_"John! Wake up!"_

_And another voice joined the lament, much younger, but no less beseeching._

_"Daddy! Please, wake up!"_

_And suddenly there were hundreds of voices inside his head, all begging him to wake at varying degrees of volume and hysteria. Some he could recognize against the cacophony, some whose owner he was sure he didn't know. When at last the noise climbed to a screaming crescendo, he heard one rumbling voice clearly ringing in his ears above the rest._

_"John, wake up."_

"…Sherlock."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forewarning - the next chapter will be two-to-three weeks in coming as my lovely Britpicker will be off globetrotting with her girlfriend. Perhaps as we edit we may change our minds and post anyway, but that remains to be seen.
> 
> So if you don't hear from us for a while, that will be why. <3

Sherlock jolted at the call of his name, the voice rusty with exhaustion and disuse, jerking his head towards the tired face lying in the bed. 

"Yes, John. I am here." John appeared slightly confused; he supposed that was to be expected after the drugs and treatment. However, now that John was conscious, he didn't feel better in the least. All he wanted was to be close to him, be able to feel him bodily under his touch and know he was no longer suffering or afraid. He stood and leant over his partner.

"May I?" he asked quietly while nudging him, hoping John was lucid enough to respond.

With weary blinks to focus his vision, John looked up at Sherlock. It took him a few seconds to comprehend what the man wanted, but as soon as he did, he slid over as quickly as possible without jostling his IV. He wanted nothing more than to feel the man's warmth against him, and it made his heart swell that the sentiment was reciprocated. As if Sherlock would change his mind soon, John clumsily turned on his side and rearranged so there was enough space to fit the lanky detective. His limbs felt like lead and he was sure he was moving with the same coordination of a drunk, but he needed to feel that life force against him like he needed air. Sherlock smiled warmly as John shifted to accommodate.

"No need to rush on my behalf," he joked softly as he slid in next to him, wrapping his arms around his waist. At last, the knot in both his stomach and mind began to ease. They lay there for a few minutes quietly, until everything Sherlock had wanted to say before John had left 221B began drifting to the forefront of his thoughts.

"I love you," he began at a murmur, and continued slowly and deliberately:

 "I don't want you to leave.

I want more time.

Why can't I just be happy?

I know something is going to happen if I let you go, but I don't know what else to do.

I need you.

I can't lose you.

I feel like everything I worked for over three years is a waste, now.

I don't know if I can keep you safe.

I might have to kill more people before this is over.

I hope you can forgive me.

I am unbelievably tired of committing murder for the sake of safety, but I will continue to do so as long as it means you're safe.

I'm terrified.

I'm a coward.

I don't know what to do.

I can't leave you behind.

Please forgive me for my inestimable idiocy.

If you die, I'll never forgive myself."

His voice was flat as he listed off his thoughts, but it began to crack a bit as he neared the end.

After Sherlock finished, John let a few relaxing seconds pass before letting a deep, stress-relieving sigh escape him.  He tucked his chin in the crook of Sherlock's neck, feeling the gentle, warm exhale of each breath atop his head, each one assuring the man holding him was, indeed, there and alive. He shut his tired eyes, focusing on every point of contact between these two halves of a whole that, gratefully, happened to both fit inside one hospital bed.

"I love you, too. I know better than anyone about killing when you don't want to because you have to. And let me remedy that fear you have of me leaving by making it clear, right now, that I will never willingly leave you. Ever. I...I'm learning something, Sherlock. This is...probably slightly less difficult for me than it is for you, but it's still difficult. It’s a process." He took a deep, slow breath, as he draped his arm over Sherlock's around him and let it drift aimlessly up and down a small patch of the other man’s back. "Needing someone doesn't make you weak. It doesn't make you a coward. It makes you more vulnerable, yeah, no question. Maybe gives you a bit of a disadvantage. But...everyone has disadvantages of all kinds, and...if you ask me? That's the kind of disadvantage I want."

"Caring is not an advantage," Sherlock mumbled, parroting his brother’s words from that Christmas Eve years ago. "Mycroft told me that once. I always knew he was right, but never like this." He kissed the top of John’s head and tightened his grip. "This is a disadvantage I would like to keep as well. You know how much I love a challenge," he added with a weak chuckle. "I failed you today, more than once. I know you don't see it that way, but I do, and I'm sorry. I..."

He gritted his teeth, loath to articulate his weakness, even to John. "I've never been so frightened in my life - and that counts Baskerville. This has very much been a learning experience for me, too. More than anything, however, I'm just glad I will continue to have the opportunity to learn more." He nudged John’s head up to drop a few, wandering kisses to John’s collarbone and throat. Faintly, he could feel goose bumps break out along the sensitive flesh of John's neck, as well as the smile forming at his jaw. "I will stay the night, but will leave in the morning to finish this business. I have already contracted Lestrade to watch you. Alright?" he asked softly. John’s grip over Sherlock’s arm tightened.

 "I can't...I can't lose you either," he squeaked, his voice suddenly cracking with the surprise and uncontrollable bout of emotion that washed over him at the news. "I know you don't want me coming with you and I couldn't be of use if I tried right now...So, please, remember that." He pulled Sherlock's hand up to press a kiss to the lined palm, and then rested the man's large, pale hand against his chest, so Sherlock could feel his heartbeat.

"Nonsense, John, you are always of use," he replied easily. "You provide plenty of motivation to ensure I come home and fuck you until you scream again." He had aimed for levity, and found it surprisingly easy to achieve it despite everything. He kissed John's neck again, letting the edge of his teeth brush the skin in a silent promise for more. His fingers over John's chest tightened a bit as well, pressing into the gown covering him. "I couldn't promise you at Bart's, but this time I can: I will come home, John. And I endeavour to ensure we won't have to live some shadowed half-life because of a bunch of dim-witted beasts." His tone had hardened, but the rest of him folded around John more completely.

Despite the serious topic at hand, John found himself shivering just the slightest at Sherlock's teeth and heat-stirring words, and pushed forward a bit in a movement that was supposed to be a warning nudge, but it ended up just pressing them tighter against each other as at the exact same time Sherlock's hold around him tightened. "I count on it," he breathed. That was all that need be said on the matter, and Sherlock knew John was just as eager to abandon the topic as he.

"You said you'd never done much travelling. You still haven't picked a destination," he suggested, tone evening out once again.

"I, ah, I dun’no. I've always sort of wanted to go somewhere there'd be beauty everywhere, in the city itself. The places I've been have never had that."

"I understand what you mean," Sherlock replied with just a touch of an edge in his voice from John's well-meant nudge back. Christ, did he want him. To have that ultimate closeness, especially after such a trying day. He shoved it back down, however, to address the matter at hand. "Might I suggest Amsterdam, then? I did not have the opportunity to appreciate it properly last time I was there. My...itinerary was too full and the trip too short." He spoke lightly over the topic, but knew John would understand what he meant. John gave a short nod, pressing his face in closer.

"Amsterdam sounds brilliant. I've always imagined it to be a place of great freedom. The city itself seems spectacular, too. Very...circular. Lots of lights, bridges. Can't wait."

 "Alright then. Once you're healed, we'll go. I'll make arrangements." That business done, he leant in and nipped the shell of his ear. John squeezed Sherlock's hand, and really, he meant the action to be completely innocent. But a thought then flashed through his head, and he lifted his head as much as his injuries would allow, adding quietly, "And when you get home, I do want you to _fuck_ me.”

" _Todo del noche, mi amor_." John had seemed to appreciate the Spanish particularly well last time it happened, so Sherlock decided to utilize it again. " _No puedo esperar_."

This time, John shivered rather violently and let his eyelids droop, a tiny flush coming over his paled face. He hummed some quiet noise that rose from deep within him, and leaned his head into the contact of the man's teeth. The Spanish triggered some memory within him of a man he was stationed with years ago, one of Spanish descent who'd always write the same thing at the end of letters to his girlfriend. " _Te amo_."

Sherlock twitched when John responded in kind. "¿ _Sabes español_?" He snickered. "Don't worry, I know you don't. I would teach you, but I enjoy being able to hold it over your head like this." His hand trailed tentatively downward, brushing his nails just barely against John's torso, giving him plenty of tone to refuse if need be.

John fought to hold back a defiant smile, rubbing his rough face into the crisp hospital pillow. "Of course you do, you git." He let out a quiet, lazy growl like some beast in repose, and pressed into the nails just enough to be teasing. "I would complain or roll my eyes, but it's really rather sort of sexy."

"My irresistible charm, ever at work," he replied smugly, reaching down further and brushing him with the backs of his nails. "One would almost believe you _prefer_ it when I'm being an insufferable dick to you." He considered the wisdom of what he was doing, worried about the bruising on John's torso. Certainly, he didn't want to cause some kind of secondary discomfort to John, but he didn't appear to be bothered so far. He decided to let the other man dictate the situation. Again he swept the backs of his fingers across him, just enough pressure behind it to be enticing.

"You'd like to believe that, wouldn't you?" John smirked to himself, and though he knew Sherlock couldn't see it, his tongue darted out to lick his lips in that habit of his. Hiding his face in order to deny Sherlock the satisfaction of knowing John was watching, his eyes darted down to watch the trail out of the very corner of his eye. "Maybe it works for both of us. God knows you certainly enjoy the attention it gets you."

"Symbiotic. Yes, that seems appropriate." Long fingers began hitching up John's hospital gown bit by bit into a fist, slowly but surely revealing more and more of the skin underneath. "And yes, your particular brand of attention...does quite a bit more for me than the average person. Not just now, even before. I still have never quite been able to pinpoint what it was about you that attached to me so abruptly upon meeting you." John was indeed still in his pants, so Sherlock opted to continue his teasing massage over the fabric for a bit longer.

At the touch, John let out an inevitably audible breath and shut his eyes. His voice was considerably huskier, but still stubbornly fighting to remain neutral. "Trust issues. The day before I met you my therapist said I had trust issues, and after a day of knowing you I killed someone for you. It was also around that time Mycroft kidnapped me and basically told me to just marry you. Guess he wasn't that far off, after all."

"Irritating as he is, Mycroft is unsettlingly perceptive." Sherlock ran a firm thumb down the straining fabric, pausing near the waistband for a moment to enjoy the bit of damp accumulating there. "At least we'll never have to worry about him disapproving, I suppose. Not that I'd much care." Despite the fact that it ached to do so, John let out a breathless little chuckle at the thought of Mycroft attending his little brother's wedding with a touch of smugness in his characteristic frown of disdain. Sherlock sat up on an elbow and looked down at John, softness touching his eyes as he looked over his partner’s face.

"Ah, there it is," John murmured with a little grin, reaching up to trace the tiny smile lines around the corners of his lover’s mouth. They were smaller and considerably less noticeable than the frown lines, but oh, they were there.

Sherlock blushed a little, pulling into a kiss to cover up his slight embarrassment. As they parted, he slipped his hand into John's pants and tugged them down the requisite amount to free his cock. He pressed their foreheads together.

"Tell me if it's too much," he said quietly, stroking up on him once slowly as an introduction. He'd take it easy, of course, but even at a gentler pace there was no telling how his body would react.

Of course, John craved him. Every cell in his body craved him - his scent, his shape, his taste, and yes, especially his touch. So when Sherlock gently pulled on him, his eyes widened and he pressed his forehead weakly forward into the other man's and he let out a small, garbled noise that he was sure was an appeal to a deity in some unknown language. He let out a huge sigh laced with pleasure, and held Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock switched hands so the arm on top could cup John's face while stroking him with a solid, slow rhythm.

"Can I assume they ran you through an MRI to make sure you're not bleeding inside your skull, and can sleep now? Because this will likely put you out." He wished he'd thought of that before riling John up, but such a scan was standard procedure in cases of concussion, so he doubted it would be an issue. If nothing else, he could periodically wake John up and keep an eye on him. Having the other man hold his gaze while palming him like this made the experience much more intense than he thought it would. The idea of getting to watch John come without any mental distraction on his part made him all but salivate openly.

"Uhhh," was all John gave in an attempt to make a noise to the affirmative, though it came out inexpressively flat and gravelly. His face was rapidly flushing and quite hot to the touch now. He felt the cool weight of Sherlock's hand cupping his cheek and used that sure contact as an anchor. He needed it, because the rest of his mind was completely gone, melted into an exhausted and entirely aroused haze of pleasure and Sherlock. The two were just about synonymous now. Still he kept Sherlock's gaze, not willing to relinquish it for anything, even as his eyelids fluttered occasionally and he began to breathe more raggedly.

"Eloquent," Sherlock replied with a snicker, increasing the pressure around John just a bit. He pulled his head back a bit to see all of John's face in better perspective, but kept his hand where it was, stroking his cheek with a thumb. "I want to watch you," he whispered, smirking. "I've yet to really see you come. I have it on good authority it's quite an event to watch in your sexual partners." He dipped his head in just long enough to suck at John's lower lip, giving it a quick nip as he pulled back again. "When we're both home again, I want you to ride me. Bucking on top of me, calling my name. Letting me have you in your entirety." Once he was done with John, he was going to need a quick wank himself, tried though he did to keep it relatively neutral.

It was as though Sherlock was _trying_ to make John break eye contact - because of course the man would make it a standoff. Well, he was certainly winning, because in the next moment John shut his eyes in a slow, momentary blink and let his mouth drop open in a shameless moan. When he opened them again, he was panting, and let out a string of curses with each puff of air. The words had, undoubtedly, made him squirm with need, and his toes curled tightly as he panted out one word:

"Please."

"Just as you marked me, I shall with you," Sherlock continued, whisper having gone ragged with Sherlock's own growing lust. "You'll be in my lap, clawing at my back and rutting your cock between us...oh, God, John, I need it," he moaned, now having closed his eyes as well to imagine the scene. Blindly he fell forward again to capture John's mouth, flailing for the other man's tongue to join his in a twisting dance between them. He picked up speed in stroking John, but still nothing close to how roughly he'd be pulling if he were well.

Roughly John shoved himself forward, the motion tugging the IV stand attached to his arm closer to the bed. He opened his mouth and unfurled his tongue in a salacious drag up against Sherlock's. His panting had digressed to little wheezing squeaks now, each exhale producing a quiet, high whine. Unconsciously, he began rutting in time to Sherlock's strokes, desperate for even more friction. As his whines began to string together into one long, needy sound, John's thighs quivered but he held back just long enough to grab Sherlock's face between his hands and yank him back, surprising the man. He had time enough to whisper, "Watch," and broke eye contact, tilting his head back and coming with a wanton cry.

Sherlock's jaw, slightly open to protest, dropped entirely as he watched John slip into full orgasm. His eyes rolled back, just visible despite his tilted head. The lines in his face melted away, making him, for just a few seconds, look ten years younger. Stress and injury and age apparently no longer touched him, replaced instead with radiating happiness and all-encompassing pleasure. In particular his lower lip dropped precipitously in an almost-pouting expression, filling Sherlock's inner eye with vision after vision of filling that perfect, gaping mouth with his own length. It was stunning and effortless; it was John stripped of all pretence, truly naked for only Sherlock to ever enjoy. Almost instantaneously Sherlock dropped his hand into the hideous track pants he still wore, fumbling into his pants to begin wanking himself hard and fast as he could before his partner could recover completely.

John's healing back was going to hurt in the morning from such an acute arch, and Sherlock hadn't even done anything but palm him. He quickly decided that was a drawback he'd take in a heartbeat if it meant a drowning and desperately needed orgasm from easily the sexiest lover he'd ever had - track pants and all. Bringing his blurring gaze hazily back down to meet Sherlock's he found the man lost in his own climb to orgasm. John felt immediately remorseful he wasn't helping, but he was almost dropping dead against the sheets with sleep after such a thoroughly satisfying end to an exhausting day. Knowing he'd only get in the way if he shoved his hands down into Sherlock's pants, he did the only thing he had enough presence of mind to do, and leaned forward to clamp Sherlock's pouting lower lip between his teeth, sucking at it.

Sherlock whimpered shamelessly and let John pull him in as he continued wanking, the backs of his eyelids painted with looping video of John's orgasm. Thank god for his almost-eidetic memory; that would likely fuel Sherlock's imagination for years all on its own. Their talk and just watching John had gotten him pretty far to begin with, so within a couple minutes he was coming hard between them. He wanted so, so much more, but knew he'd have to wait to get it. So powerful was the desire he continued stroking himself beyond orgasm, face scrunched with effort as he ventured to tire himself out completely, with little peaks of sensation cropping up as he did. Perhaps someday with John he could achieve a second consecutive orgasm.

_No, I need to stop entertaining ideas or I'll never calm down._

Finally he backed off, hitched his pants back up, and oozed himself out of the hospital bed to pick up something from the bathroom to clean John up with.

"I...I'm actually a little surprised at myself for doing that," he said, leaning up against the doorframe to the bathroom while he got his legs fully under him.

Watching Sherlock mid-and-post-orgasm was already John's favourite thing, and he'd only just been privileged enough to see it twenty-four hours ago. Christ, was that right? It couldn't be. It didn't matter, though. He struggled to lie on his back and trace Sherlock's flushed face with his eyes, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

 "I'm not." At the arching of an eyebrow from the other man in the bathroom doorway, he shrugged casually, the smirk not fading at all. "I know the thought of me with you makes you hot. Powerful enough, I know now, to make the great consulting detective insane with want. I know, because it does the same thing to me."

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, but all he could come up with was a mute flapping of his jaw before he gave up, pouted, and turned in a mocking huff into the bathroom. He dampened a rag and returned. John slowly pushed himself into a sitting position so he could see Sherlock better, leaning back on his hands.

"You know there's a control for the bed, moron," he snarked, holding up the connected remote. He cued the bed to sit up at a bit more of an angle for John, rolling his eyes in overdramatic impatience. Once that was done, he pulled back John's gown once again to get at the bits of come dotted up his chest. In doing so, he got a first, real glimpse of the damage that had been wrought. He was a deep purple predominantly on his right side, but it extended all across his stomach to the opposite side. John's arms were visible at that angle as well, being at either side. The hands were cut up and bruised, too, most likely from shielding his face both during the hijacking and the bodily assault. And his back...one suddenly shaking hand nudged at John's shoulder for him to lean forward, and Sherlock pulled aside the gown there as well. Angry red welts accompanied full-on slashes down the entirety of his back, not too deep but no more pleasant to look at. One in particular apparently needed stitches, judging from the crisscrossing sutures on one end of a long slice. The hand on John retreated to cover Sherlock's mouth and he closed his eyes for a few moments. Another first - Sherlock _never_ shied away from injury, others' or his own. But again, John was the exception.

John rolled his eyes, a good-natured smile adorning his features, and sat patiently as his partner cleaned him up. He even caught himself dozing off at the calming motions of the damp rag swiping over him, but suddenly it wasn't quite right. The hand on his shoulder was trembling, and then gone altogether. His eyes snapped open and he stared up at Sherlock, whose face had contorted into open pain; certainly not the sort that would shred his body, but the sort that would shred his heart.

"No...no no no no no," he heard himself feverishly whispering and reaching hands pulled Sherlock's head down, his forehead bumping against John's in an intimate closeness. Sherlock clapped a hand to the back of John’s head and took a few steadying breaths.

“I’m fine. Sorry. I just…” he let the sentence drift off in a huff of breath and shook his head pressed against his partner’s. “It’s not nearly as bad as it looks, I know, but Jesus, John…” Again, there was that reminder of how close he’d come to death today, perhaps not as acutely or dramatically as the night at the pool, or the day Sherlock had jumped, but far more illustrated in real, bodily damage. That made it hurt all the more, and made it far more tactile and present to the both of them.

“I know.” John would always marvel at their level of understanding of each other – telepathy, John liked to think of it, though the detective would scoff at the notion. He rubbed his thumbs soothingly over Sherlock’s cheeks, leaning up to press a quick kiss to the man’s lips. When he pulled back, their foreheads were still connected, but he was looking steadily up at Sherlock. “Please sleep with me,” he requested quietly. “I know you’ve got to leave in the morning, but I…I want to fall asleep with you.”

Silence, then a nod. "Of course. As if I would sleep elsewhere." He'd been aiming for warmed sarcasm, but lingering distress gave the words more desperation than anything else. He went back around to the other side of the bed and slipped in next to John again, fiddling with the blankets so they were both covered. Reaching behind him, he snapped up his mobile to pad out a text to Lestrade to come in the morning, and set an alarm for himself.

"Want me to wake you before I go, if you're not up?" he asked once he turned back to face John on the bed. He spread his hand over John's face, circling around to draw along the bottom edge of John's lip with a thumb.

Visibly calmer now that he could feel Sherlock's body heat radiating off him, John closed his eyes at the touch, allowing him to sense it fully and catalogue its path along his face. "Yes," he breathed, and a feeling of heaviness washed over him the intensity of which he'd never experienced before, as he was comfortable, relaxed, and exhausted. Giving into the anchor of sleep gently but persistently tugging him down, John mumbled out a ‘love you’ before nestling closer and dropping off completely.

Sherlock enveloped John's shoulders, careful not to jostle him and his injuries too much. "And I, you." It all but made him physically wince to think that, perhaps, John was almost afraid to sleep alone. Not that Sherlock could blame him after the day they'd had. "It'll be fine soon enough, John," he murmured into his blonde hair absentmindedly. It wasn't often that it happened, but Sherlock, too, was worn enough to drift off soon after, sleeping something close to a full night two times in a row. Mercifully, John slept in a deep, dreamless slumber. He didn't move in his sleep as he usually did, restlessly, but slept like a log, still and heavy against Sherlock's body. It was in these seemingly fleeting moments of unconsciousness that John was allowed to forget the stress and terror and pain of the previous day and just float in a swirling oblivion.

Sherlock had set the alarm as a precaution – however, as expected, he didn't sleep until then. He woke around five with a jolt, confused by the unfamiliar hospital room and weight against his chest. He calmed quickly enough as consciousness sharpened his senses. Counting on the combination of drugs and exhaustion, Sherlock carefully pried himself from John's grasp and got himself in for a shower. Lestrade would be in at nine sharp, so he had a considerable amount of time to kill. He took his time in the tiny bathroom, trying to release as much of the remaining tension and fear from yesterday as he could. It proved difficult, given how his stubborn mind saw fit to paint his inner eye with the image of John's battered body just as he thought he had everything under control. He put his hands against the tile, leaned forward and hung his head under the water, trying to empty his mind completely.  

_Almost done_ , he told himself,  _and then everything will be fine._  

He made a face at his stolen clothes once emerged from the shower, opting instead to sweep up his phone and pad out a message to a member of the homeless network to bring him his coat and suit left at his safe house. They arrived half past six, and by seven Sherlock was sprawled out on the big chair again, thinking and texting with Molly on lab results. John would occasionally grow restless in sleep, clearly missing Sherlock's presence there, and the detective would reach out and grab whatever patch of John's skin was convenient to calm him back down again. He needed as much sleep as possible in order to heal quickly. 

At a quarter to nine, he received a text from Lestrade asking for John's room number. Five minutes later he was knocking softly at the door. He opened it and stepped outside to speak with him. 

" Anything I should know?" Sherlock asked. 

"Your brother's been watching for airline departures. Doesn't seem they've left, if nothing else." 

"No, they'll just be gunning to kill me now, not waste any more time and resources. Idiots." 

"Mock all you want, but be  _damn_ careful. They're not to be trifled with." 

Sherlock merely nodded and opened the door again to let himself and Lestrade in. He approached the hospital bed and took John's uninjured shoulder in hand. "John? I'm leaving." 

John blinked hard a few times and rubbed at his eyes, confused. Sherlock had just been in his arms, and now he was standing by John's bed in different clothing.

"Leaving?" Looking past his partner he saw Lestrade standing behind him, and Sherlock's words from the day before hit him. Lestrade was to be taking care of him while Sherlock went back out there. Beating his brow into a neutral frown, he let Sherlock and only Sherlock see the apprehension in his eyes. "I'll see you tonight," he said firmly, as if not merely a statement but a promise.

Sherlock gave only his customary hum of affirmation to keep the pseudo-normalcy between them. In one tiny break from that, however, he dipped down for a short, simple kiss before retreating for his coat. He turned to Lestrade and met his eyes. Lestrade nodded confidently and pulled aside his coat to show his sidearm. He took the chair Sherlock had previously been residing in and smiled at John. "Cluedo, then, John?" he asked, a charming smile pasted across his face. 

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes while slipping on his scarf. Coat shrugged on and officially out of excuses to remain, he gave John one last look before sweeping out the door and down the hall. He sent a text to his brother. 

_Information?_ _– SH_

~

John watched Sherlock for as long as he could, following the man's figure out the door and down the hall with his eyes until Sherlock passed the window and out of sight. He sighed and clicked the button that controlled movement of the bed, manipulating it to a sitting position.

"Yeah, we could play. As long as you don't try to make the victim the culprit." He shot a friendly smile at Greg, memories flooding back of many a night of arguing with Sherlock over the gameboard. Greg snickered and sat back.

 " _I_ follow the rules, unlike some people." Lestrade had heard the two of them bickering more than once in time he'd known them over it. He tapped his fingers contemplatively on the armrest for a moment. "So you two are...official? How long you been keeping it from us?" he asked good-naturedly. John started at the question, though he knew it was meant in good faith.

"Erm, well, since two nights ago, I suppose. That's really when we broke boundaries. Though it seems everyone and their mother was expecting it for quite some time before that." John scrunched up his nose in amusement. "We are official - I think. Dun’no if I'd call Sherlock my boyfriend, though. It feels more...permanent than that." Greg nodded knowingly.

"Knew there was something different 'bout you two when you came ‘round yesterday. Everyone at the office figured if you two were finally going to take the leap, it would have been right after Sherlock came back. But I always figured you two would go about it on your own time. I didn't anticipate getting a front row seat to it, but..." he shrugged and rolled his eyes. After this long, there was really no point in being continuously flustered over anything his two friends got up to. "Anyway, long as you've lived together, I suppose you've sort of...hopped over all the dating and getting-to-know-you business. Makes sense it'd feel more like a permanent thing." Lestrade's face suddenly darkened. "Did you ever tell him about..." he let the sentence end itself. 

"Mary? Yeah." John gave Lestrade a quick look, then glanced away. "Told him about the baby, too. He was...very...gentle." His eyes clouded over as he reviewed their conversation two nights before in his head. It had been painful, yes, no doubt about it. But Sherlock had been patient, understanding. He'd comforted John when he cried and spoke quiet, noble words about what responsibilities he'd have taken on were the two of them to still be alive. "It's different now. Feels like that was in another life."

"Sherlock does have that effect on people, doesn't he? Even my life feels different since he came back. And the difference before I ever met him and after is pretty huge, too. But he occupied quite a bit of my time when we first met," he said with a reminiscent smirk. They weren't pleasant times, but looking back on them now, Lestrade could very happily say he was glad to have met the man. 

Curiously, John looked back up at Lestrade. "I imagine he was quite a handful when he was younger - well, you know. A bigger handful." He smiled in knowing sympathy at the DI, before inquiring, "What was it like? What was he like, you know, back in those days? He just, he never talks to me about it. I was just wondering."

"Not surprising he wouldn't talk about it. I'm not even sure how much of it he _remembers_ ," Lestrade opened, a little uncomfortable. "My...introduction to him was at a crime scene he wandered across not long after I took head position at major crimes. There had been talk about him already - detectives coming across him while working, but I hadn't before. Stumbled in and began blathering on about blood spatter being faked and listing off all the reasons why, absolutely mad. Jabbering at a thousand miles an hour. I arrested him for being under the influence. Only time I've ever heard him laugh hysterically," he added thoughtfully. "I was soon after introduced to Mycroft, as you can imagine." 

Wincing, John snorted in sympathy. "Ah, so you've known Mycroft just as long, then. My condolences." Hesitating, he added, "That is, unless he's somehow managed to be less irritating to you as he is to me. I believe I've been kidnapped just to have a talk with him at least eight times." He smirked without humour.

"That did happen to me once or twice, years later. The first time, though, he showed up while Sherlock was in lockup and announced himself as his brother. I asked him if he knew his brother had a problem. He gave me this look like he was trying to figure out if I had made it past primary school - that didn't improve my mood. He gave me a condescending bit ‘acknowledging my concern’ and that ‘it would be handled’. I let him know in no uncertain terms what I thought of his 'handling' of Sherlock. I don't think he'd ever had anyone tell him off like that before. Even the men guarding him were a bit aghast. He whipped out his security clearance after that, so I was forced to let Sherlock go, but Mycroft was about as cowed as I've ever seen him. Sherlock had pretty much come down by that point, anyway, I guess. Looking back on it now, I realize Sherlock must have been rather impressed with me, though I couldn't read him then like I can now. But as for how he was," Lestrade continued, "think of him on his worst day and multiply it by a factor of a hundred or so. He's leagues better than he used to be." 

John raised his eyebrows, contemplating how Sherlock used to be, if this was his 'leagues better.' The man never spoke of his youth. "That's good you made the short list of people that impress him, then." He rolled his eyes. "It has its benefits, though few and far between." John gave a wry smile. "How's your wife, then?" he asked good-naturedly. "Haven't heard about her in a while." Greg shifted uncomfortably.

 "The ring's only for show. Been separated four months. I anticipate papers in a couple weeks. The kids are old enough, now, to understand. We've explained the situation...with a few things omitted, obviously," he added, referring to his wife's affairs, "and it seems it will be something of a clean break. Long enough time in coming, I suppose, but what else can you do." He shrugged, clearly resigned. "I'm letting her have full custody with visits. I just can't do half all on my own, with work." John wasn't exactly stunned - as Greg had said, it had been a long time coming - but he still felt a great sadness for someone he considered to be a valuable ally and friend.

 "I'm sorry, mate," he muttered, and it was twofold; _I'm sorry for making you explain, and I'm sorry for reminding you_. "Maybe when I'm all better, we can go out for a pint. Take your mind off things. Do something other than work, yeah?"

~

_No major movement yet. Some regrouping on the east side of the city. We are keeping a close watch - thoroughly, this time. -MH_

_Where shall I meet you? Or shall I head to the east side and bide my time? Wish you'd warned me - wouldn't have worn a suit just to ruin it otherwise. -SH  
_

_Yes you would have, Sherlock. Yes, head to the east side. I and a few top operatives, as well as simple strength in numbers, are setting up base in an abandoned office building. I trust your homeless network you're so fond of will tip you as to the exact location. -MH_

_Petulance ill-suits you, brother dearest. -SH_

Sherlock hailed a taxi and tried not to show too open of annoyance when the driver balked at being dropped in the east end.

_I see you've elected to be the kettle, this time, Sherlock. Do hurry. We have work to do. -MH_  

With a characteristic frown, Mycroft slipped his phone delicately back into his pocket and stepped over to a panel of computers screens a few operatives were busy setting up in the deserted, somewhat depressing office space.

Sherlock sneered at the reply and didn't bother retorting. Waste of kilobytes. While waiting he did indeed touch base with a few of his informants, who supplied him with a more accurate address to go to. The taxi dropped him off on the edge and made haste out of the area. Sherlock took off on foot - it was only a half-mile or so to his destination. 

"Your professionalism is sparkling as always," he opened when he arrived at Mycroft's impromptu base fifteen minutes later. "Hope you afford Her Majesty a bit more courtesy than you do your kin." 

"Her Majesty is afforded every courtesy, rest assured," Mycroft replied with calculated civility. He stepped over to an old desk upon which were a few monitors already set up. "These are the most likely spots the horde of individuals you are looking for will show up." On the monitors were three different locations: a block of subsidized flats, an old hardware store, and a shipyard. "We can track their movements to narrow it down, but your...expertise in this area would be much preferred as the quicker option."

"Yes, play into maddened homeless people's delusions of being monitored by the government," Sherlock replied snidely but nonetheless took out his phone to make a few calls. "Snap judgment suggests the apartment complex. Easily defensible as well as best for hiding additional men for attacking from behind." That said, he turned away to address an operative on the phone. Once wrangled, they could have the location likely narrowed down in an hour. 

~

Greg gave him a small smile. "Sounds good. I'd appreciate that. And that invitation for the odd rugby game is still wide open to you. I know you've been busy - I am, too - but the league's pretty flexible if you just want to get around for practices so you can get out and about. Been a blessing for me, lately." He leant forward, elbows on knees. "You need anything, by the way?"

At the offer, John's face brightened in a grin. "I’m good, thanks. And sounds great. Christ, I haven't played rugby in years...Since uni, I think. Might be a little rusty. Maybe more than a little." John laughed a little at himself. "So how's life on the force? Anderson's not giving you any trouble, is he? You know Sherlock'd jump at the chance to snark at him."

"Anderson? He's reasonable enough when Sherlock isn't around. Puts on his fits, but he really can't compare to Sherlock on a full temper-tantrum. And you and I both know Sherlock doesn't need an excuse to snark at him," he added with a knowing nod and a smirk. “Anytime you could rein that in, I’d appreciate it.”

John shared Greg's knowing smile and sat back, rolling his sore shoulders back. "Yeah, I can try, but I think Sherlock's probably going to be as difficult to deal with as ever. Maybe sometimes I'll be able to get him to be a little less so. No promises." Greg waved John off with a chuckle to underline his sarcasm.

 “Other than that, work is good. It's constant, keeps me focused on...other things, as you can imagine." His expression became thoughtful for a moment. "Speaking of the Yard, if you want me to keep you and Sherlock between us, that's not a problem," he reassured.

Becoming serious, John cleared his throat and nodded. "I'd appreciate that, yeah. Just...I mean, not that I personally care, but..." He swallowed uncomfortably, not wanting to speak ill of Lestrade's people. "Well, you know how he can make people want to jump on any little thing to get at him, is all. I just don't want to be ammunition."

"I completely understand. I'd never try to force my opinions on the people who work for me, and some of them will have...less-than-tolerant opinions, of both Sherlock as a person and...all this," Greg said, gesturing vaguely. "I hate to say it, but it's true. So we'll leave people to their own assumptions, eh?" he suggested with a smirk. "But as far as I'm concerned, I'm delighted for the both of you...if that wasn't already obvious."

"Uh, yeah. Thanks." John managed a smile for his friend, but something nagging at him for years caused him to pipe up again. "Erm, Greg..." Now that he had the man's attention, John would have to go through with it. "Was it... _that_ obvious? I mean, it seems like everybody - strangers, even - were assuming we were together. I never could figure out why."

Greg tilted his head in thought. "I guess the short answer is yes," he began, "but too simple. Everybody talked, of course. You lived together - two grown men seemingly out of the blue. People made assumptions without really thinking about it. I can only speak for myself, of course, but...there's always been something...special between you two, to be perfectly honest and downright cheesy about it. You make him better, and I know you well enough now to know _he_ makes _you_ better, too. Better in both a moral way and, uh...fixing each other, I guess? I don't know your story, John, but the man I met at that murder with the pink woman is a far cry from the man sitting in front of me today. And _Sherlock_ , well," Lestrade sighed, sitting back, "I've seen him high, furious, broken, functional...but until he met you, I'd never seen him really living before. But I suppose I have better context than you." John sat back, stunned. He opened his mouth to speak but found he really had nothing to say, so he closed it again. Finally he opened it again in another botched attempt to speak.

"I thought..." Thought what? That the day he'd met Sherlock was how Sherlock always was? That he hadn't always been this passionate, this energetic, this alive? He let the thought sink in a little more. "I'm left-handed," he eventually got out, nodding to himself. Lestrade looked at him, puzzled. "I'm left-handed, and I write straight because of him."

~ 

Mycroft sneered at Sherlock a little, but eventually managed to keep his expression under control and nodded once in a professional manner uncharacteristic of his usual feud with his brother. "I shall alert my operatives," he replied curtly, and stepped over to the elite group huddled around high-tech equipment at another desk. A half hour later Sherlock strode back up to Mycroft.

"Confirmed no's on the shipyard and the hardware store. No sighting at the flats, though, so it could be a bluff." He sauntered over to a monitor with a video feed on the building in question. "Have you anything to say?" he asked, earning an irritated hum in question from his brother. "About John. Whatever disparities you have about it, I would rather hear them now than later. Retorts tend to land better when I don't plan them ahead of time." 

At Sherlock's words, Mycroft straightened to full height, his eyes cold, indignant orbs. However, this time, apart from so many others, there glimmered in them an unfamiliar look of remorse. "I have no comments to make about John other than the fact that he is a good man. I learned that the first day I knew him. And as for the recent developments, I am truly sorry for yesterday's events. Were you looking for me to make some quip about your finally developing sexual relationship? We do have a drug ring to catch, dear brother."

"A quip had been hoped for, yes," Sherlock replied, "but you _would_ be contrary. And as far as John...I know you did your best," he conceded and left the mutual apology at that. He turned to an empty computer and stared at the monitor rather than Mycroft. "And...mother's opinion?" he asked, unable to keep the trepidation from bleeding into his voice. "Don't pretend you haven't kept her _...informed_."

At Sherlock's calling out of sorts of his purposeful contrary behaviour, Mycroft smirked. "Mother has been notified, yes. But she has known about John, and she had expected it - a lot sooner, if you'd ever bothered to keep in touch with her." His voice was smooth and unaffected, but not reprimanding, as he knew he was just as guilty as his brother on that count. The elder Holmes grimaced, turning away from his brother as his next words reminded him of his own failure to comply with his mother's wishes. "She has informed me quite firmly of her desire to see children, before her time."

"For such an intelligent woman, I'm shocked she doesn't understand basic biology," Sherlock returned easily, turning to address Mycroft again. "Between having the British Government and a reclusive consulting detective for sons, I don't know how she ever had an expectation to begin with." His tone was sarcastic, but his expression softened considerably at Mycroft's answer. He had her approval. Of course, that meant... "Christ, she wants to see him, doesn't she," he muttered to himself, pulling a face as if he'd bitten into a lemon wholeheartedly.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "I informed her of the nature of your _relationship_ ," he volleyed, deliberating on the last word as if it were disdainful. "I am now merely warning you of her present state of mind. Because yes, of course she will want to see him, and you know how she can be quite...different to deal with. You could thank me."

"It's difficult to tell if your disdainful tone is meant for John and myself in particular, or just your general distaste for any kind of human interaction. Interspecies communication _is_ always challenging. Even my sense of subtlety has limits, Mycroft," he shot back. "But regarding mother...yes, forewarning is helpful." That was all Mycroft was going to get from him. What a surprisingly peaceful exchange...for them. "Now, as you said, drug lords are at hand."

~

It took Greg a few moments to suss out what John meant, but eventually his eyebrows rose in understanding. "Your shoulder injury in Afghanistan," he said vaguely, remembering it having been brought up a few times since they'd met. Sparingly in his presence, but enough.

"You limped, too, when we met." He barely remembered that, if only because of the cane he once carried. "You're telling me he fixed that? I thought it was...just a sprain, or something. Temporary. What did he do, exactly?" John nodded, because of course Greg would have no idea what he was talking about. Of course he’d sound like a madman to the DI. Of course Greg wouldn’t have Sherlock’s jarring but useful propensity to read his mind and anticipate his meaning.

 “The limp was…an unforeseen side effect of my injury – totally psychological. Anyway,” John continued in a rush, clearly uncomfortable, “one day of knowing the guy, and I’m chasing after bad cabbies. No cane needed. He…he saved me - from myself, I suppose, if you want to be poetic about it.” Greg broke into a fit of laughter, earning a bemused expression from John.

"That bastard's capable of just about anything. Coming from anyone but you, I'd call them mad. Jesus." His laughter died off and he regarded John with familiar warmth. "It's like you two were made for each other. Legitimately. Never seen anything like it. You don't seem much of a man to put stock in fate, though. For however incredible and strange it seems to me, it must be even more so for you."

"It's fucking mental, Greg. _I_ can't believe it's happening, and I'm in it. I keep thinking I'm going to wake up one day and it's all just going to be some crack-filled wet dream. Do you believe that? I think I'm dreaming, because I'm with Sherlock Holmes. It must sound so ridiculous to you, but it's true. I'm so...I'm so lucky."

Greg laughed again and leant towards John. "Well, if you remember what I told you during that first case, I think we're all very, very lucky. And we have _you_ to thank for that." A real, toothy smile broke across his face, regardless of whether or not John understood his subtle reference. John had, honest to god, made a good man out of Sherlock. He'd proved it the day he sacrificed himself for his only three friends on the planet - something he'd never have done without John. John narrowed his eyes and smirked a little, beginning to understand Greg's allusion.

"Well, I think we make each other better. It's like you said. Symbiosis." The word triggered what Sherlock had said yesterday about their natural give-and-take of attention. He smiled at the thought. "Anyway, as long as he's not being an annoying dick, he's actually really...sweet." John would not have revealed that to anyone else, but Greg was as close a friend as John had besides Sherlock himself.

"I won't tell him you told me that. Probably would kill the messenger anyhow." He chuckled and crossed his arms. "He's your best friend. The person you love should be, and any relationship is symbiotic. Sometimes they don't last, or become dysfunctional," he said, voice going soft for a moment, "but you two have literally faced down death together. If you could take everything from when he came back, I think you'll be fine." Yesterday, he'd have scoffed at the notion of Sherlock being _gentle_ with anyone or thing, but watching him leave this morning had totally reshuffled his perspective on the man. "It's nice to see him be a little more human once in a while, even if only you can make him do it.” John snorted affectionately in response, if ever a sound could be produced.

"Yeah, it's nice for me, too." He paused a moment, then leaned forward in a friendly, open gesture. "I have to say, Greg, you're really insightful - and I don't mean to sound surprised, it's just...for however long we've known each other and been friends, we haven't really had these kinds of talks very much. Just...thanks. For this." Greg nodded in agreement.

"Back at you. It's good to finally tell someone about the divorce. Haven't even told my parents yet. And it's okay, I'm not offended. We're men; we don't usually just...talk about this sort of thing. And for once, one of us has something _good_ to talk about. Those first few months after Sherlock left..." he shook his head. "But that's the past now, thank god." He scratched the back of his head. "It's not all terrible for me, either. Sally's been trying to convince me for weeks the receptionist on the first floor - her name's Colleen - apparently she fancies me. Been trying to pluck up the courage and ask Sherlock if she's right. And hope he doesn't dick with me over it." He stared at the floor and shrugged in embarrassment.

~

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but gracefully took the hit to his humanity - the fact that Sherlock had, in his own way, almost thanked him, helped. He turned back to the screen with the flats, narrowing his eyes and scanning over it. "Yes, it does appear that site is vacant...but if so, there could be dozens of other pockets for them to congregate." He turned to Sherlock then, straightening his suit. "Have you any notion, any memory, of where in London this cartel likes to frequent?"

Sherlock leant against the desk, palms down, and hung his head. Minutes ticked by, his fingers tapping and twitching as he sifted through his mind palace for the entries on the operation nearly three years past.

"They like having river access. Use small watercraft when they can to move product towards shipping yards. Bigger than cars and not as restricted as driving to piers," he muttered, only half concentrating on what he was saying as he was still knee-deep in intense thought. The analysts beside them, listening intently, punched in criteria to search appropriate locations on the monitors. Mycroft glided up to the screens just as they were loading with all the new information.

"Our theory about the shipping yard seems to be correct, though it's not the one on that screen. Rather, one close by. Victoria Park is its primary route. Sound familiar?" Sherlock seized the screen and looked himself.

"Faintly. International operations weren't widely discussed, not specifics at least. Just bits and pieces I picked up while I was there. Remember, I wasn't there to take down the cartel." He grit his teeth, wishing he had something more concrete to offer Mycroft. Sensing his brother's frustration, Mycroft whipped out his phone and entered in the information from the computers with terrifying speed.

"I remember," he said shortly. "However, on an international level, I believe I can be more of assistance. I believe I know exactly who to contact, as well. Excuse me." He moved off to a corner of the dingy office building, faint snatches of Spanish drifting back to the others.

Sherlock crossed his arms and glared at the computer, as if his best interrogation stare would yield him the information he needed. He just had to hope they hadn’t gone completely to ground in anticipation of leaving. If they went back to Colombia, that would be it. Catching them at that point would be exceedingly difficult, and in the interim Sherlock and John wouldn’t be safe. If would be Moriarty all over again, going into hiding to spare themselves. John didn’t deserve the kind of existence Sherlock had lived for three years. When Mycroft returned, he was puffed with self-importance, and his expression fresh with predatory intent.

"Brother, prepare yourself. I have it on good authority there is about to be a huge shipment deal along the Thames. We leave in ten minutes."

Sherlock nodded curtly before striding towards Mycroft's assemblage of muscle awaiting instructions. They were standing near a small weapons cache; without saying a word he nudged past them and picked out a pistol for himself. Yesterday still hung over his shoulders, and he wasn't about to make the same mistake twice. If he wanted something done, he'd do it himself. Mycroft himself set about securing his operatives' personal arsenals. It was his job to ensure that at least 80% of them returned alive. He stepped over and, surprising all, grabbed a small semi-automatic. After a small silence he looked around indignantly at his colleagues.

"I have no qualms about getting my hands a bit dirty, and I am burdened with the responsibility to keep my brother alive long enough to see him endure a visit to our mother." He shed his jacket briefly to put on a shoulder holster.

"Careful Mycroft, they might start believing you're capable of sentiment," Sherlock rebuked, checking the clip of his gun. "You, getting up and around for legwork. That high-carb diet must be working wonders for you." He stepped to his brother's side. "At least I won't be the only one ruining a suit. Where to?" The elder Holmes raised an eyebrow, casually folding two semis into the holsters and taking a regular handgun in hand.

"Say what you will about my diet, but it's working quite well, I'm told," he smirked, indicating the extra slack in his jacket. "Cars should be arriving in five minutes to take us near the location. Old ones. We're to be as inconspicuous as possible."

"Yes, because three-piece thousand-pound suits are inconspicuous," Sherlock deadpanned. Mycroft ignored him. He turned to his operatives, pointing as he spoke.

"You, you, you, you and....you, are going to be on the far side of the river. The others, you'll join my brother and me on the other side. We will surround and cage them. Half of you will maintain a perimeter, and the rest will come with us as part of the actual assault."

"Let's get on with it," Sherlock muttered with a mild sulk at not being able to get a rise out of Mycroft. The others would provide excellent cover - Sherlock only had one mission in mind. Hopefully Mycroft wouldn't interfere for the sake of counterintelligence. All that could be dredged from a hard drive somewhere after everything had blown over. Anything posing a physical threat needed to be put down – _today._

Mycroft sneered but didn't retort - they really had to get moving. The other operatives packed the rest of the arsenal away in black duffle bags and the group of them set off. As Mycroft had said, there were old, seemingly beaten-up cars waiting for them.

"Choose your vehicle, brother. I assume you want to travel in a different one than I. I have not forgotten your propensity for petulance."

Sherlock did indeed choose a separate car from Mycroft, but for much more functional reasons - he wasn't going to give any malcontents the chance to end the Holmes line with one simple shot. They were all about to become targets, but Sherlock still would be the priority. It would be entirely too tragic if Mycroft were to die in the exchange and Sherlock himself somehow magically survive; there would be no more get-out-of-jail-free card, no high-security identifications to steal, no one to make fun of quite as elegantly. And one of these days he still had to wreak havoc on his brother's precious Diogenes Club.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo~ So sorry for the delay, my hours at work lately have been truly horrific. <3  
> -midget

Mycroft arched a well-groomed eyebrow when Sherlock chose a different vehicle, but opted to say nothing and instead focussed on what they were about to do. He went through the three weapons in his jacket and rearranged them so as to be readily accessible. When Sherlock's car in front of him began the procession of the four or so vehicles, Mycroft's van followed soon after. Sherlock took out his pistol and loaded the chamber. He'd taken a couple extra clips as well - plenty of ammunition. This fire fight likely wouldn't last long; their element of surprise was absolute, and the men accompanying them far better-trained than simple police officers. He had a passing thought to text John, only to remember Mycroft still had his phone. He  _could_  call the hospital, but any last-minute call would only make John worry for its sentiment. Instead he merely leant his head against the window, thinking about him. Not pining, of course - Sherlock did not _pine_ for anything.

The cars moved at a normal pace considering the traffic and time of day, the group making absolutely sure there was nothing to point them out to the naked eye unless one looked very, very hard into the slightly tinted windows of the vehicles. When they arrived near Victoria Park, Mycroft texted an operative in each car with instructions to park along the side street, next to the bakery.

"We'll need to position ourselves in advance," he instructed as everyone got out of their respective cars. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the redundancy. Mycroft sniffed in annoyance. "You all know where to go, so take a duffle bag and go. Set up the perimeter."

Sherlock slung a bag across his back and palmed his gun. For now, he would take cues from Mycroft until an opportunity presented itself. Easy enough to accomplish once all hell broke loose. He headed for the rendezvous point, keeping just inside of the edge of some trees surrounding the park to shadow himself. Mycroft watched as his operatives settled into position on both sides of the river and settled in. He cocked his two semi automatics and held one in each hand, pointing them at the sky in a resting position against his chest. 

"Soon," he murmured into his earpiece, notifying all the agents, and nodded once at Sherlock, who was stationed about fifty feet away. 

Sherlock stayed behind a spare bit of wall overlooking the Thames - seemingly a random choice, but in actuality particular. There were a number of assorted ledges made of boxes and awning to make for an easy drop down to the pier itself and jump on-board if Sherlock fancied to. The oversized yacht in question drifted towards them, four people visible on the open area of the bow. Easy pickings.

~

"Colleen, eh?” John grinned and tilted his head in curiosity. “Now that I recall, I did happen to see a certain twinkle in her eye when she says hi to you in the morning." He shrugged, still grinning. "Could just be my imagination. I could put in a word, if you like. Drop a mention, see what he says. If there's anything going on, Sherlock'll have an opinion about it. You know that."

"Could you? I know Sherlock wouldn't be too keen on being called upon to be something as banal as a crystal ball for relationships, but..." Greg shrugged. "This seems the more...surreptitious way." His embarrassed smile eased into a larger, more natural one. "Some might say it's too soon, but given how slow a death this has been, I would almost say it's been too long."   
  
"'Course, mate. I get that. Jesus, do I get that." John smiled in sympathy, and opened his mouth to say more when a cough in the doorway made both men's heads turn. An average-sized woman of unremarkable proportions and medium-length sandy blonde hair stood stock-still.

"You didn't answer your mobile," she accused in a shaky voice after a moment of uncomfortable silence.  
That seemed to snap John out of his stunned stupor.

"Mycroft took it," he offered in defence. He turned to Greg, eyes flitting between the two of them nervously. "Greg, this is my sister, Harriet." Greg stood and strode to meet her.

"Yes, Harriet, good to finally meet you; I’m detective inspector Gregory Lestrade. I owe you an apology - I should have had the presence of mind to notify you when John was admitted," he offered, which was true given he was the lead investigator in both the murder and John's kidnapping. Even if Mycroft was running clandestine operations alongside the official case. "The people responsible for attacking your brother are in the process of being apprehended right now." Harriet started a moment, eyes flitting between the DI and her brother much in the same way John's eyes flitted between the other two – a little panicked, but also morbidly curious.

"Glad to hear it," she replied finally, her words a bit slower and more unsure. She turned to John. "I saw the crash on the telly. They said it was a terrible accident. Heard you in the list of casualties." John shared a look with Greg and smirked a little. _Mycroft._ Of course he'd cover up the shootout. Harry pulled a cushiony chair up on the other side of John's bed and sat facing Lestrade. John cleared his throat.

"Yeah, well, I'm fine. Or, I will be."

"Yes, how you found out is...not standard procedure. I apologize for scaring you like that. We're usually much more conscientious, but given John's a friend, my judgment was a bit clouded," Lestrade reassured, taking his seat again.  He kept it vague, unsure as to how much John was willing to actually tell Harry of what was going on. He decided to let John dictate what information was to be leaked or not. Harry still looked unsure, as if she was trying to decide whether to be angry at everyone involved, or understanding of the nice man who was apologizing for the situation and really giving her no reason at all to be furious. She settled for exhaustedly sitting back in her chair and running guarded but concerned eyes over her brother's face.

"It's...alright. I should have been keeping up with my brother before this. It's sort of the first time we've spoken in a bit, so I'm afraid you've caught us on an off day, Detective Inspector." John managed a grimace of a smile and shot a subtle, grateful look at Greg.

"Sherlock and I were on a case. Things just got out of hand." Harry looked chastising, but they'd had this argument many times before, so she simply leaned back further in her chair and said nothing.

"Not a problem, Harriet. Though I have to inform you that, for a number of reasons confidential to the Yard, I must stay with John. I would give you a moment if I could, but orders are orders, even if it's just a precaution," Lestrade added, hoping to soften the suspiciousness of what they were doing. "I assure you, however, that I'll have no issue with whatever you'd like to discuss." He shot John a meaningful look, hoping he caught the 'you-should-tell-your-sister-you're-gay-now' implication in his words.

“Why? Is there something he needs to discuss with me? John?” Harriet asked, head swivelling between the two men, concern fostered anew. John wiggled nervously.

“What? No, Harry, nothing serious-”

A cough from Greg.

“I mean, nothing _dire_ …”

Another look from the DI and John huffed.

“Fine. Well, not to say there haven’t been…developments…”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked. John grimaced.

“I mean, Sherlock and I…we’re…” What _were_ they? Had they even decided on a definitive answer to that question yet? “…together?” There. That conveyed what needed to be conveyed. Harry just stared at him for a moment. “What?”

“Nothing.” She looked as though she were holding back a snicker.

“Seriously, _what?_ ”

“Nothing, John! Just, you were so earnest. You had me thinking you’d gotten someone pregnant, or something-“

“Oh, please, Harry, I-”

“No, of course _that’s_ off the table now, obviously.”

_“Harry!”_

“What? I’m happy for you!”

~

Deciding a moment of sport had been awarded to him, Mycroft quickly deduced the four men on the front of the yacht. No doubt Sherlock would want to dash straight out into the thick of it. He always was so obsessed with appearance and superiority...Mycroft rolled his eyes and took aim on the men on the bow. He wouldn't mind leaving his younger brother the fresher meat. They'd all be dead anyway. He gave a signal into his earpiece, then nodded to Sherlock, tapping out the counts to give his brother some sort of signal.

One, two, three - BAM.

Sherlock let slip his usual containment once more as Mycroft counted down, accessing the coldest, darkest corner of himself to assist. Pistols were more than a bit inaccurate at this range, but Sherlock had gained much skill in the years he'd been gone. As the men on the bow fell, Sherlock jumped from his hiding place down towards the dock. Some men had nearly finished mooring the craft - now they were hastily trying to undo it so the ship could escape. Sherlock rounded on them with a flurry of gunfire from behind, killing one outright with a lucky shot in the head, and kicking the wounded one into the river. Someone tried to pull the gangway at the stern; Sherlock emptied half a clip keeping the man at bay until he could run up it himself. He kicked the crouching man brutally in the face once he was on-board, but almost immediately had to roll into a wall as others appeared with guns. It was a big craft - a good dozen men at least could be comfortably fit in the hold alone.

Two clean shots later and Mycroft had done his job at the front. While Sherlock braved the onslaught from the hold onto the main deck along with a couple tagging along behind him, Mycroft headed with a couple others to board starboard, taking down the group from a side angle as well as working his way to the stern. The big game players would be kept somewhere safe until the bulk of the fighting had died down. That was what the perimeter team was for - a last-chance defence should Sherlock and Mycroft’s efforts be unsuccessful.

"Sherlock!" he barked, jerking his head to indicate his brother follow him; they were going to climb down into the bowels of the vessel and seek out whatever lurked there.

Sherlock exchanged his empty clip for a new one and glided after his brother. They each took a side next to the stairs heading to the hold, peeking out carefully. Shots popped past their heads and they both fell back, sharing a look. After a few moments, it went quiet again. He counted to seven, turned and shot without hesitation, catching a man who'd stuck his head out to look. Unfortunately, he was immediately followed by another man flanking him, who shot as well back up at Sherlock. It clipped his arm as he tried to duck back again, cutting the sleeve of his coat and into the flesh, though not much. Once safely behind his cover, he glowered at the damaged fabric, as if it was more an inconvenience than anything else.

If there was one feasible reason why Mycroft had always surveilled Sherlock, always seemed to keep him on a rather short metaphorical leash, it was because, at the heart of it all, Mycroft Holmes was fiercely protective of his brother. The one practically raised the other in the midst of absentee parents - it came with the territory. When Sherlock was hit - albeit, not severely, but even so - by a passing bullet from some hapless thug, there was no change in Mycroft's expression except a slight tightening of his jaw. Without hesitation, he dashed away - looking, of course, like he'd abandoned the operation, but with a singular purpose in mind.

~

Greg hid his burgeoning laughter behind a polite cough.

"Very smooth, John." He leant onto his elbows, looking at Harry. "Don't feel too left out, I only just found out myself when I got here. Inconsiderate tosser, isn't he?" he winked and grinned at Harry, pointedly ignoring John.

John snorted and rolled his eyes in exaggeration, trying to get his point across. Harry giggled - actually _giggled_ \- and crossed her legs in her seat, nodding conspiratorially. John blinked at Greg's all-too-effective charm on his supposedly female-inclined sister, crossed his arms as best he could with an IV sticking out of his hand, and arched an eyebrow. When it appeared neither of them was paying him any mind at all, he spoke up.

"You know, it _was_ just two days ago that we got together officially, it's not like I've been keeping you guys out of the loop or anything..."

"It's not like this loop was all that hard to figure out anyway, John." Harry flashed her brother a playful smile.

"Look at us, clever pair we are. Likely we were in the loop before John ever _saw_ it." Greg finally let himself break into a bit of laughter at John's expense. "I was beginning to think the two of them were just going to stare wistfully at each other for the rest of their lives, and I'd be stuck as the comedic relief like in some torrid romance film." He patted John on the leg good-naturedly. For all the trouble she seemed to give him, she _did_ seem like a well-meaning sibling. John glared at Greg as the man patted his leg; way to sell out to the other side.

"I'd like to point out that for the first five years of knowing him, Sherlock had given everyone who would listen the impression that he was asexual. Or, at least, uninterested at present. It's hardly my fault, if that was made clear the first night, to go after someone whom I was aiming to be potential flatmates with."

Entirely too late, John realised that in the process of defending himself he'd revealed that he basically got shot down the first night, and promptly shut up.

"You _what_?" Greg asked, incredulous. "You hit on Sherlock the day you met? On _purpose_? Blimey you've got a pair. Most people can't get past a 'good morning' with him." He sat back, a mixture of impressed and shocked.

"I did not - I didn't - oh, Christ." John shut his eyes a moment, recollecting his composure before attempting to diplomatically answer the question.

"Not on _purpose_..."

Liar.

"No. We merely got to talking on that subject, and he _thought_ I was hitting on him, but I wasn't."

More lies.

"Which, as you can imagine, led to some serious awkwardness."

That part, at least, was true.

"Anyway, we straightened it out and were all good a moment later."

Harry snorted. "Yeah, we can see that."

~

"Mycroft!" Sherlock called after his brother, but instead of following him, he continued taking pot-shots at the man who'd struck him. Whatever his elder brother was planning, he would bring to fruition himself. Mycroft would only complain if Sherlock offered to help. He turned and saw a machine gun peeking out from under a body; he clambered over and seized it. By the time he'd extricated it, however, the man from downstairs had ascended. He took one well-trained shot at Sherlock, who only dodged for rolling aside at the last second. They both abandoned guns and opted for hand to hand. Though nearly equal in height, the bodyguard was easily a time and a half heavier than Sherlock, all muscle. Said muscle tried to pin Sherlock by the head, but like quicksilver he slipped out from under at the last possible moment. When he turned, however, the man had brandished a knife - military issue, too. Sherlock found himself on the defensive, dodging the clearly razor-edged weapon from wide, fast swings. As Mycroft returned, he assessed the struggle on the bow. Somehow, in the maybe thirty seconds he was gone, Sherlock had gotten himself in a tangle with a brute twice his size and weight who was brandishing a rather sharp-looking knife. The elder Holmes rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"Sherlock! Karachi!" Mycroft shouted, hoping Sherlock would take the hint. Thankfully, his brother seemed to understand and ducked just as the elder Holmes jumped back onto the yacht and held down the trigger, gracelessly but effectively mowing down Sherlock's massive adversary. Mycroft now understood the allure of machine guns. What was that little thing...ah, yes. Rapid fire.

The pat-pat-pat of gunfire subsided and Sherlock looked up again. Mycroft was holding an obscenely large automatic rifle and looking pleased with himself. Snorting derisively, he snatched up the gun he'd been trying to pick up and rejoined his brother. "Show-off," he spat, swapping out the clip attached to the side of the weapon. Thudding footsteps announced the arrival of more men from below. Sherlock grabbed his brother by the lapels and pulled him into the safety of the cabin wall's shadow. He shucked his coat - it was only going to get in the way.

"Bloody lemmings," he cursed as he fiddled with the rifle, then looked to Mycroft to properly see if he was okay.

Mycroft huffed and straightened his own suitjacket. He nodded in a gruff thanks - much more was hardly ever needed between the Holmes brothers - and properly inspected his own large weapon to ensure it had ample ammunition left. Pausing just enough to let out one long, focusing breath, Mycroft ducked out into the doorway again, squeezing the trigger and nabbing men as they rose up the steps. Once he'd cleared a path, he gestured Sherlock with his other hand and barrelled down into the dim hull.

Sherlock ditched the rifle he'd picked up – damned thing had apparently jammed - and pulled out the pistol once more. Closer quarters anyway, and Mycroft obviously had a handle on bigger firepower. At the bottom of the stairs, however, a fist connected with the back of his head, laying him out on the floor. Dimly, he recognized the sounds of Mycroft struggling with someone himself. Then he had the strange sensation of floating...no, being dragged, his addled brain told him as it struggled to get back online.

There was someone - no, two someones - wrestling Mycroft to the ground. His machine gun only acted as a weight to pull him down, and it was eventually ripped away from him. One figure pinned his arms behind his back, while the other picked up his legs as if they were light as feathers. The two of them carried the struggling elder Holmes after the man who was dragging Sherlock to the hull in the bow. Mycroft tried to twist himself out of their grip, but the one carrying his top half merely struck a blow to the back of his head that made him go limp.

~

"I've seen you chat up witnesses for Sherlock I don't know how many times, and you're telling me you hit on him _on accident_. Right. Sherlock's not kidding, you are an _atrocious_ liar," Greg replied, recalling a passing mention the detective had made once of John's ability to lie properly. "Jesus mate, that's a long time to hold a candle for someone. Does he know about this?"

John opened his mouth indignantly, but instead of spouting more lies and half-truths, his caught off-guard brain told his mouth to open and he blurted out, "No." He immediately grimaced, unable to take back his blatant admission, so instead of backpedalling he elaborated. "And I'd rather he not. At least, not right now. He doesn't need to feed his ego or know how pathetic I was, okay?"

Greg's teasing smile softened. "It'd feed his ego, absolutely, but I don't think he'd find it pathetic. He'll probably find it endearing if nothing else. What's the harm? You're an item now, right?" 

"Yeah, I guess." John shrugged, smiling knowingly to himself. His smile faded almost imperceptibly, but the shift was there. Truthfully, he was nervous - alright, he was a bloody wreck inside. While Greg could distract him and keep him safe, he wasn't exactly calming, because John still didn't know where Sherlock was or now he was doing or what he was doing or what someone was doing _to_ him-

He shook his head slightly.

_Don't dizzy yourself with worry, Watson, you've got to keep it together to welcome him home. Please, let him come home…_

Greg sat back and folded his hands in his lap. John was apparently growing a bit restless. That made sense, it had been hours, now, since he'd left and there had been no word, yet. Greg didn't anticipate one for some time, but then it wasn't his significant other's life on the line. Sherlock was a friend, absolutely, and he was worried, but he wasn't so presumptuous as to think his feelings were anything close to John's. Unfortunately, he couldn't openly reassure his friend, either, lest Harry grow concerned and start asking questions John wasn't willing to answer. John let out a tiny sigh and felt himself shifting inward, growing quiet and worried. Harry, used to this when John was anxious, frowned and tilted her head.  
  
"How's work, then?"  
  
He glanced up at her, seeming to snap out of a glazed over state, and focused on her. "Hm? Good, yeah. Mundane. Mundane is good."  
  
"For your lifestyle, I imagine it is," she replied, nodding. "And how's the other work?"  
  
"Good, as well. Sherlock's brilliant, as always. Really on point. Obnoxious, sometimes." John smiled a little knowingly at Greg.

"Obnoxious, yeah, I guess that's one word for it," Greg answered with a little exasperation. If getting your significant other embroiled in a vendetta that threatened his life, yes, that was very much the definition of obnoxious. "So what do you do, Harry? I don't think John's ever mentioned." His friend was growing distant, and Greg took whatever bit of tenuous conversation he could think of to keep both of them engaged as long as he could. If John grew too listless, it could become problematic. Surreptitiously he took out his phone and tapped out a text to Sherlock.  
  
 _Progress?_   _-GL_

~

Sherlock kicked at the man holding him, but he was merely dropped and pistol whipped before he could recover. It didn't break his nose, but he would be sporting raccoon eyes for a while. They didn't go far before he was dumped back on the floor and made to sit on his knees, barrel of a gun to the back of his head. Mycroft, apparently unconscious, was tossed into a heap in the corner and summarily ignored. A giant man of Latin descent stepped forward to address him, smiling wickedly. "Slippery as ever, but you _are_ only one man mister Hargreaves. Or rather, Holmes it seems." 

"Clumsy and brutish, but I suppose you had to get capturing me right one of these days. Question is, can you _keep_ me?" He replied lightly, frantically running potential plans in his head.  
  
It took a few minutes, but eventually Mycroft's mental faculties came back online. Of course, he knew better than to attempt to move, especially from such a vantage point as the corner of the room. Whether or not the brutes thought they'd killed him or simply knocked him out, they obviously didn't see the elder Holmes as a threat at all. Judging from the weight in his left inside pocket, they hadn't even bothered to strip him of his last handgun. He breathed as silently as possible, watching the Latin man tower over Sherlock on the ground, nursing a dull headache and building his endurance back up. Sherlock was grabbed by the face by his captor - rather excruciating given his facial injuries - and his head was turned so the man could speak in his ear.

"Your words are empty, and your fear is palpable. Putting on a brave face is pointless." From Sherlock's odd angle, he could just see Mycroft in the corner. It wouldn't be noticeable to anyone but him, given his deductive eye and the fact it was his brother, but Sherlock could see Mycroft slowly but surely stirring.

Good, their chances of escape just doubled.

"You had a name for me, didn't you? When I was running around, killing your men right under your nose," Sherlock said, tone still placid. " _El Viento, si?_ Uncontrollable, unseen. You may have me cornered, but I'm about the only one in this room who isn't afraid. _"_ It was a struggle, but he forced his head to turn best it could to address the drug lord, putting on his best 'crazed homicidal maniac' face on for added effect.

If it wouldn't have jeopardized his current status as unseen, Mycroft would have snorted derisively at his brother's bold words. He knew, of course, that they were likely true - Sherlock was probably the only one in the room with something - someone -  actually valuable to lose; coupled with his reckless and, when needed, aggressive behaviour, and the drug cartel was dealing with a very lethal man. It seemed as though they had no idea exactly _how_ lethal, either. Good. Then the Holmeses still had somewhat of the element of surprise. Mycroft's headache had subsided enough to be dropped to the list of his secondary needs, now. His eyes widened just a tad, and his hand moved almost imperceptibly to his left coat pocket, tapping it once to signal: ready when you are.

Sherlock only just managed to catch the movement from Mycroft before his head was jerked to face forward again. The hand began to retreat - likely Sherlock's only real chance, especially since he was only being restrained via the gun trained on the back of his head. There hadn't been time or materials to restrain his hands, after all. Snapping his neck viciously, he slammed his forehead into his retreating captor's, stood and in one fluid movement caught the man in a tight headlock from behind.

"That's more than enough of that," he said, retreating with the man to the back of the cabin. Guns retrained on him, but no one, of course, fired. The advantage wouldn't last long, though; while the two men were roughly the same height, his opponent was much bigger and stronger than him. But then, that was what Mycroft was for. He could take care of the extra chattel and  _hopefully_  Sherlock could hold his own for a few minutes against his little problem.

Three superfluous bodies, two at the door and one inbound. All focused on Sherlock, all with a blind spot of the left back corner. Perfect. Quickly Mycroft rattled off numbers in his head, calculating the angles and number of seconds he'd have to make three exacting shots before they returned fire. If he was accurate, the other three would be dead before they could make any sort of decent shot, and the one currently in Sherlock's grasp would hopefully be taken care of by his brother. Again, Mycroft let out a slow, silent breath. Then, action - he flipped his handgun out of his coat pocket, thankful for the blind spot affording him half a second more of time, before firing one shot - two - three at the drug lemmings. The first two crumpled immediately, kill shot head wounds seeping like a stream - head wounds always bled a lot. The third shot, however, Mycroft missed the man's head, instead hitting his shoulder. Yes, his dominant hand was unusable, but he could still fire with the other. The British government sprang from the ground and leapt at the wounded man, snapping his neck in one swift movement before stumbling over himself, unbalanced from such quick movement after a head injury. Ducking out of his brother's and his brother's captor's circle of struggle, Mycroft spotted Sherlock's phone abandoned on a table with his handgun – it was buzzing. He typed out a quick reply, not even bothering to sign it.  
  
 _Almost._

~

Harry shifted her gaze to the DI, sitting up a bit in her chair. John glanced over at him, a subtle look of gratitude for what Greg was trying to do.

"I'm a solicitor. Writing and whatnot has always been my strong suit."  
  
"Always was fond of arguing," John grumbled, reluctantly entering into the conversation, and his sister smirked.  
  
"Damn good at it, too."  
  
"You're a solicitor? I had no idea. Obviously outside the criminal realm, or I'd have surely run into you by now," he said with a smile. It was a bit forced, though, as nearly fifteen minutes had passed without any kind of reply. John gave him a subtle, questioning look, but Greg passed it off. "What specialty, then? Business? Estates?" His pocket buzzed; he tried not to make his haste to answer it too obvious. Though without his usual signature, it was still an answer if nothing else. He stowed his phone again, smile much more natural to signal John. Harry smiled politely.

"No, not criminal. That's more my brother's speed. I deal in civil matters - mostly big-name companies, people suing each other, the big bad machine of business. John finds it terribly boring, but I take a certain pleasure in taking arrogant men down a peg - not unlike you, I suppose." She smiled at her brother, and he glared back. Out of the corner of his eye, John gave a small smile back to Greg, signalling an understanding of the implication of the text. Greg chuckled.

"That is a pretty sizable perk in this job. Few things more satisfying that cuffing a perp after a long chase. Your job is a lot safer than both mine and John's, though." He sat back, his nerves significantly eased with the text message. "You're both quite accomplished professionals, then. Your parents must be proud." John snorted, and Harry shot him a quick warning glance.

“Yes, they’re quite proud.” An antagonistic look passed between the siblings and John cleared his throat.

“So, Greg, how’s that case you’ve been working on lately? Is it coming along?” There was a tiny note of urgency in John’s voice that would be undetectable to his sister, who wasn’t looking for it, but he hoped the DI caught the message.

~

Sherlock cried out in surprise as he was lifted and flipped over his opponent's head as if he weighed nothing, landing on his back heavily and knocking the breath out of him. Stars circled in his vision as the other man fell upon him with the intent to strangle; Sherlock rolled aside and struggled to his feet. He was caught in the ribs by a knee, winding him anew and dropping him to his knees. Mycroft appeared to be having trouble discerning the real pair of men through double-vision, but nonetheless tried to charge. The bear of a man turned and all but slapped his elder brother aside and into the wall.   
  
Sherlock caught sight of one of the other men's guns on the ground and scrambled for it - he turned to check in time to see he was about to be assailed once again. One forceful kick to the face was just enough to occupy the other man so Sherlock could snatch the gun. Flopping onto his back, he emptied the clip with panicked abandon. Hands that had just managed to fix around his neck started out iron-gripped but soon began to loosen, and eyes filled with rage began to cloud over. Much as Sherlock wanted to drop a few clever last words, he was too out of breath (and, if he was honest, panicked) to speak any. So he settled for watching the life drain from the man right there on top of him. His suit and shirt beneath dampened with blood, but still he waited until he was sure he was gone before rolling the larger man off of him. He crawled over to Mycroft and sat him up against the wall.

"Mycroft?" he asked, patting the side of his face in hopes of rousing him. It took longer, this time, but he eventually came to. Unsurprisingly, even when rising from unconsciousness his elder brother managed to maintain a mild sneer at his circumstance and Sherlock’s tepid concern.

"I suggest you change if you don't want to give your Boswell a heart attack," he muttered, suppressing a little groan as his eyes blinked open to take in the sight of his brother's bloodied front.

"I'll worry about how I look once you're seen to," Sherlock replied.

When he regained his vision more sharply, Mycroft glanced around at the bodies strewn across the floor. "Bit of overkill, don't you think?" he noted, surveying Sherlock's massacred captor. "Then again..." It was probably just what the man deserved. Slowly and with a lot of leaning against the wall, Mycroft pushed up to a standing position and froze. realising he hadn’t heard from anyone above for a frightfully long time.

 "Report," he uttered into his earpiece. No answer.

" _Report_." Crackling, heavy breathing, then a raspy voice.  
  
"One dead, four wounded. No one's critical but me." A pause and some hacking coughs. "All clear on deck."

"Upstairs, and then we'll call an ambulance for you and everyone on the deck. Come on, brother." Sherlock put an arm around Mycroft's shoulders to keep him steady.  It proved quite a challenge to steer Mycroft upstairs - he had a hard time keeping on a straight trajectory despite Sherlock's help. Once on the deck, he joined the others gathered at the bow and dialled 999 as he snatched up his coat from where he had abandoned it. 

Mycroft huffed out a little laugh at the situation – his hateful little brother, saving his life and helping him stay upright – but otherwise, mercifully, remained quiet. He leaned against the rail of the yacht, assessing each member of the team. They all looked rather badly beaten, the one man in critical condition, but Mycroft supposed it was better than lying on the deck in a pool of their own blood, as were the ones on the other side of the brawl. Shakily pulling out Sherlock’s phone, he tapped out a message to the DI before handing it back to its rightful owner. 

_Safe._

~

Greg schooled his expression, but raised a mental eyebrow at the siblings’ exchange. Off-limits, then. Oops. He was about to readdress John when his phone went off once again. Mumbling an apology, he pulled out his phone again. A true grin split his face and he looked to John.

“Marvelous. All tied up and done with, actually. Just a matter of getting a final, official report. In fact, I should do just that now. Excuse me.” He stood and stepped out to the hallway and shut the door behind him, dialling Sherlock along the way.

This ambulance arrived much quicker to this scene, but then they were a bit closer to a populous centre this time. The critically wounded man was loaded up first and carted off. The other men as well as Sherlock insisted Mycroft go afterward, given his head injury. Sherlock hopped in and rode along, waving off any triage. He had no injuries requiring immediate attention. His phone rang mid-ride.

“Lestrade?”

“Everything alright, then?”

“How’d you – ah, Mycroft, of course. Yes, we’re on our way back to the hospital. I’m fine,” he continued, cutting off the detective’s question pre-emptively. “Mycroft’s earned himself a bit of a concussion. Only natural he’d get a bit clumsy with his disdain for legwork. Unpracticed.” A tiny smirk bent his lips as he looked down at his elder brother with an expression as close to familiarity as he’d ever get. Mycroft gathered his faculties as much as possible to shoot Sherlock a smouldering glare, but it was a bit softened by his general dizziness and recognition of Holmesian concern. “Ten minutes ‘til we arrive, but I’ll be a bit downstairs seeing after my indolent brother.” That was a good cover – he could get stitches for his bullet-cut arm and ice for his face before heading upstairs.

“Sounds good. Not a moment too soon, either. John was getting edgy.”

“John worries entirely too much.”

Mycroft settled into his gurney and drifted in and out complacently the entire way back to the hospital, and was customarily rushed in a flourish of nurses and EMT uniforms. It was a bit excessive to him, but he supposed the man next to him in critical condition would appreciate the haste. As expected by all, he had secured his own trauma room long ago for matters of secrecy and high-ranking officials, and he was treated for his concussion as the man received top-notch stitching and medication. He lifted a hand to point to a duffel bag in the corner, his head throbbing too much to nod in the general direction.

“Underneath the pantsuit, there’s an extra button-down,” he explained to Sherlock, who was getting quick stitches beside Mycroft and looked like he had stepped out of a horror movie. “It should do for now, when you see John.”

Sherlock nodded back at his brother as the nurse finished knotting his stitches. Given his brother’s and the other man’s condition, she flitted off, only stopping long enough to hand off a cold compress to him. The sleeve had been cut off his ruined shirt to do the stitches, but was otherwise intact. Sherlock snatched up the duffel and headed for the elevator, wanting a shower almost more than he wanted to see John. Fortunately, he could have both in a matter of minutes. Ignoring the horrified stares of passersby, Sherlock mounted the elevator and was immensely glad when the doors drifted shut without anyone else entering. Quiet, at last. He dropped his head back against the wall and noted he was still shaking a bit, part of the comedown from adrenalin. It would pass. He caught a blurry sight of his face in the reflective metal of the elevator – already bruising. Well, then.

John couldn’t help clenching and unclenching his fists in happy anxiety, knowing Sherlock had to be close to coming back if Greg had gone out to take a call. He steeled himself for his partner’s probably less-than-pristine appearance, knowing that if Sherlock could handle seeing John’s body, battered as it was, John sure as hell could handle seeing Sherlock’s.

Once arrived at John’s floor, he slung the duffel over a shoulder and disembarked. He caught sight of Lestrade standing outside the door still, likely waiting for him. Why not wait inside? No need to hide a debrief from – _oh._ Harry, most likely, had heard. Oops. Should’ve mentioned that. Oh well. Lestrade looked up from his phone and paled.

“Don’t worry. It’s not mine – well, mostly.” He shouldered past the detective and opened the door, oblivious.

Having had a few minutes alone, Harry had taken the time to give a few soothing, slightly sarcastic and very Harry words of comfort, and when the door opened John had turned to face it with an actual smile on his face. That smile dropped, however, a mere shadow of the joy that could be found in John’s eyes. John wasn’t looking at the bloody mess on his shirt or the gnarled bruises around his eyes - none of that physicality meant anything to him. When Sherlock pushed past Lestrade through the door, John involuntarily let his mouth drop open slightly and leaned forward, fixing Sherlock with a gaze that most certainly said _I am trying with all my might not to climb over this gurney in my hospital gown and tackle you._

The sheer rush of joy in John’s eyes was something Sherlock had never seen reflected in anyone’s eyes before for him. It was rare enough to see people were relieved he was okay, but _this_ …this was unadulterated excitement and thankfulness. He pitched the duffel across the floor in a sliding drop and rushed over to John to kiss him without another thought, all his usual preoccupancy with appearance be damned. It quickly came to a halt, though, as pain shot up his face. Entirely too soon he pulled away.

“Ow… _ow_.” He put a still-bloodied hand to his face, wincing. Scrunching his face in reaction only made it hurt more, and he pressed the soothingly cold compress to his face to compensate. “Sorry,” he mumbled past it, the corners of his smiling mouth just visible on each side of his hand pressed to his face. Instead he offered his free hand as a distant second show of relief.

Sherlock smelled like gunpowder and salt. He tasted like blood, and felt like heaven. As Sherlock pulled away and mumbled an apology, John licked his lips and laughed, a sound of pure relief. He took Sherlock’s hand gently, but firmly.

“My Sherlock…” John breathed, just loud enough for the taller man to hear. His free hand reached up to delicately push back sweaty curls from that pale forehead. Sherlock grinned in silent reply, despite the pain.  Lestrade slipped back in, waiting for an appropriate moment to interject.

“Shall I just wait ‘til tomorrow, Sherlock? Or will I even get a report?”

“I’ll make sure Mycroft sends you one, though you likely won’t be able to file it with your own investigation.”

“That’s fine. But, uh, maybe I should…”

Sherlock strode over, removing the compress and switching it into his left hand before extending the right one.

“Thank you, Greg,” he said somewhat self-consciously. Lestrade took it enthusiastically.

“Anytime.” With a quick nod to Harry and John, he left. John watched Greg leave, feeling better for having had time with him, even if most of that time was spent metaphorically or sometimes literally wringing his wrists in worry over Sherlock.

“Everything’s fine, now. You’re safe,” Sherlock said as he strode back over to John, allowing himself of moment of redundant obviousness just so he could speak the intensely satisfying and relieving sentiment. He managed to tear his gaze aside from John to address Harry. “Apologies, Harry. Despite whatever you’re thinking, I assure you I didn’t intentionally hide John’s condition from you. I have…been exceedingly busy.”

“Understood, though I have a few obligatory questions as to your current state…” Harry looked from Sherlock to John, and her brother gave her a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of the head. She smiled wryly. “But I have a feeling most of them will have to be left unanswered.” She stood, checking over John’s vitals on the monitor next to his bed, and bent over him. “He’s a right bloody nutter, your boyfriend is,” she said quietly, the hint of a smirk just beginning in the corners of her mouth.  John shot one back, nearly identical.

“You like him, I can tell,” he replied in a hushed tone that matched his sister’s in volume. Harry’s smile wilted a bit.

“I’ll cover for you with mum, okay?” John’s eyes lit with recognition and his own expression became a bit stony. Harry reassured him with a brief touch on the shoulder. “Must be off – meeting with a client tomorrow morning for depositions.” She winked at him, and looked at Sherlock with something resembling apology in her face. “Boring legal stuff.”  Sherlock merely shrugged, though inwardly intrigued by the silent conversation between the siblings.

“You need not concern yourself with niceties, Harry. I’m sure you’re quite busy. But I’m glad you stopped by to see John while I was…out,” he said, voice purposefully vague. “Afternoon,” he finished with a nod, taking the chair next to John again. Harry reciprocated the nod and headed out, giving a little wave to her brother as she stepped to the door. Soon as it shut and she was down the hall out of sight, Sherlock seized John’s hand in a tight fist and kissed it.

“Sorry for taking so long.”

“Sorry my arse,” John shot back just as quickly, wriggling in his bed to be as close to Sherlock as possible without actually falling off. “I’m glad you’re alive.” His voice was admirably clear, though a little emotional roughness around the edges was to be expected. He raised their tightly clasped hands as if in a toast, and kissed the back of Sherlock’s own dirty hand. “Go take a shower, now. I want to hold you.”

Sherlock didn’t need telling twice. He stood in a rush, stopping only long enough to sweep up the duffel before disappearing into the bathroom. He put the water on nearly-scalding hot, but it felt good getting the remnants of the day off him as thoroughly as possible, even if it stung like hell. He took a moment to look at himself – along with his bigger injuries, he had a number of smaller cuts on his arms from the brief knife fight on the bow, as well as an assortment of burgeoning bruises all over. Blood (his own) swept off his cut arm and face with the water, and more on his torso (the dead drug lord’s) joined it on the floor of the shower. He turned and winced against the water; there was a cut on his head, too, from the strike to his skull earlier. All told, however, he could be a _lot_ worse off. That said he made a mental note to make sure Mycroft wasn’t getting hospital staff fired out of irritation later. Once out of the shower, he smeared off condensation on the mirror to have a better look at his face… _awful_. Perhaps fractured from the pistol whipping. Painful, but would heal in its own time. It wasn’t as if an injury like this could be casted appropriately. Maybe John would have an idea what to do. He was out fifteen minutes later, back in his slacks and with Mycroft’s offered shirt on but left unbuttoned. John slid over immediately and Sherlock took up his place next to him.

This time, they were both a bit broken. But this time, John didn’t have to worry about letting Sherlock go. He slid over to make room, then scooted back until their torsos touched, wrapping his arms carefully around Sherlock.

“You look like someone smeared boysenberry jam on your face,” he whispered affectionately, forehead nudging forward to just barely touch the other man’s. “But those eyes…” Those eyes, the ones that reminded John of thunderstorms in summer, _they,_ at least, had not changed. His gaze grew slightly more somber, and he asked quietly, “How much does it hurt?”

“Hardly, if I’m not too expressive, which for me is easy as breathing,” he replied, snickering. “Fractured, at the most. And as for the arm,” he said, dropping his eyes down and to the right. “Fine. Probably the minimal amount of pain for being shot.” He realized what he’d said a beat too late. His jaw hung open and his eyes widened in minute panic, struggling to find words of apology and coming up short. Even when he _tried_ he was truly awful with tact. John couldn’t help flinching ever so slightly, but before Sherlock could backpedal and mumble out a clumsy, well-meaning reply he closed the few inches between them in a kiss, partly to silence him and partly to accept the apology that never needed uttering.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he breathed against Sherlock’s mouth, smiling a bit against it. “And, luckily, you have a doctor who’d be more than happy to share a few tricks.” Sherlock relaxed precipitously into the kiss.

“Careful. I might take advantage of you fussing over me.” He sat up a bit, leaning on an elbow to hover over John. From that better angle, he smoothed his free hand over John’s face lovingly. “What about you? Better today? I think you should stay a day or two more before going home.” John would almost certainly become restless once home and try to do all manner of things, so Sherlock figured if he could keep him tied down here even a bit longer, it would do that much more good in the long run.  John only grinned up at him, eyelids slightly drooping at the warm, familiar touch.

“You like me being here in this bed all vulnerable don’t you? You must, if you want to keep me here,” he teased, then closed his eyes. “Better today,” John confirmed. “Though, the feeling of complete safety and love doesn’t happen too often, so I suspect that has something to do with it, as well.” He sighed, reaching up with still-shut eyes to place a hand over the one trailing down his face. “I’ll stay a day more. Because it’s you.”

“Glad you agree, because you didn’t have a choice,” Sherlock replied with quiet amusement, dropping to place a few long but innocently gentle kisses around John’s face, mindful of his own current discomfort. “And I apologise that there was ever a gap in that safety to begin with. Shan’t happen again if I can help it. I wasn’t kidding when I said I didn’t throw away three years of my life to have everything fall apart.” The hand at John’s face drifted into his hair and tightened in it a bit in repentant strain.

“I know.” Reluctantly, John opened his eyes, tearing away his focus from the gentle touches of Sherlock’s lips against his skin in favour of catching a glimpse of his stunningly attractive face – with or without the cuts and bruises. “I never stopped, you know. Believing in you. Not today, not yesterday, not during those three years. I know you know that, it’s just…I don’t think…” He hesitated, leaning his head up and tilting it slightly to catch Sherlock’s mouth in a sincere kiss before continuing. “I don’t think I know the extent of all you did, in those years, to keep us alive,” he said slowly, choosing his words carefully. “I don’t know if I’ll ever fully know. If that’s the case, then I just want you to know that I appreciate it. Every second of it.” Sherlock dropped his eyes from John’s instead staring at the hem of his hospital gown around his neck.

“You don’t know,” he said quietly, “I wish Bogotá was the only notable story, but it isn’t. There are others, some…nearly as bad. Nothing that will entail danger for us, but…well, as I told you night before last, things I’m not proud of. When we go to Amsterdam, I will tell you. I…I don’t want to talk about it at home. It’s too…I just don’t. Apologies.” He laid the side of his head against John’s chest and hoped he would understand. 221B was quiet, safe – relatively untainted with those memories despite everything that had happened. Just talking about Bogotá in his room would leave it steeped in Sherlock’s perfect memory forever. Far too much already. John inhaled slightly at the contact to his bruised chest, but realized Sherlock must be in a lot more pain for the pressure against his fractured face. He lifted his hands to sift rough fingers through the man’s silky curls, cradling Sherlock’s head against him.

“We won’t talk about it at home,” he agreed, his voice quiet and soft. “And I won’t press you. I’m sorry for bringing it up. I don’t want to remind you of anything, I just…wanted to thank you,” he finished, voice small.

“Understood. Thank you,” Sherlock replied. They sat there for several minutes, content in silence. “Before we leave the country, however,” he opened again tentatively, wincing a bit, “you…need to meet Mother. Mycroft has long since informed her of our…situation, and as such apparently wishes to take stock of you herself. You are, of course, _more_ than welcome to refuse,” he suggested all-too-enthusiastically. John, having sobered quickly at Sherlock’s grave tone of voice, couldn’t help but let out a painful chuckle.

“Mother,” he repeated slowly, trying out each syllable on his tongue. After a minute of consideration, he nodded. “Despite the obvious answer I know you want me to give, I rather think I’d like to meet Mrs. Holmes. It’s obviously something I’ll have to do at some point. Rather interesting she wants to…’take stock’ of me. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” Sherlock pondered John’s words for a moment, face scrunched with distaste.

“The immediate answer is yes, she approves. Mycroft has likely told her much of your character, as well a number of things you’d have rather told her yourself, but then my brother is infuriatingly nosy. You say you’d ‘like’ to meet her, but let me just take a moment now for an ‘I told you so’ so I needn’t repeat myself later. She is as shrewd as both Mycroft and myself, to devastating effect if necessary. Just something to keep in mind.” He looked John up and down. “I’ll have to take you to Bond Street and get you decent clothes before we go. You are _not_ going to see her in any bloody jumper if it kills me.” John's expression turned to one of almost childish indignation.

"I'll have you know jumpers are perfectly practical and comfortable, thank you very much." His expression faltered slightly, suddenly self-conscious and uncertain. "Is she really going to be that shrewd?" He'd met people's mothers before, of course, but people's mothers weren't _Sherlock's_ mother. "Does how I usually dress not impress her?"

"I honestly have no idea, but I'd like to ensure the highest chance of success in your meeting. So, jumpers are out. And maybe I just want to spend exorbitant amounts of money on you. Win-win." Sherlock continued to not meet John's eyes, steadfastly staring at the wall beyond him. "And yes, my mother is _very_ shrewd. Surely that would be obvious – she’s _my_ mother. I just...don't want anything to go wrong," he finished quietly. His mouth twisting into a small frown, John watched Sherlock watch the wall, speaking to appease.

"Well, if she already approves, then there'll be no need to do anything but be myself." He paused a moment, during which time he buried his face in Sherlock's neck, littering it with loving kisses. Sherlock jolted, suddenly ashamed of himself at the thought.

"I...I didn't intend to imply that you as yourself was unsatisfactory," he said in a rush, sitting up again. "I just...I didn't...I'm sorry." He felt compelled to get up and leave, so powerful was the guilty sensation, but he didn't. "I haven't seen Mother in some time, so I don't know what to anticipate. But I wouldn't ask you to _behave_ any differently, ever, I assure you." John blinked up at Sherlock, tilting his head just slightly. The crease in his brow deepened, though his tone didn't change.

"I know that. Sherlock, I know meeting family's unpleasant no matter how you look at it - trust me, I know. We don't have to go see her if you're not ready. But hey - I want you to remember, whenever we do go and see her, you'll have me right there with you, to be friendly and unassuming and make you look like the most brilliant man to ever grace the earth -moreso, that is.

"You...of _course_ you know," Sherlock continued, growing only further embarrassed. "I can't say anything tactful today, can I? Perhaps I should just stop talking." He turned from his sitting position so he sat on the edge of the bed, head hung. "The last thing I should be doing is projecting my family problems onto you. I don't know what I was thinking." John stared at Sherlock for a moment, entirely dumbfounded. Then, very carefully in attempt not to hurt either of them, John sat up and crawled behind Sherlock, sitting on his knees on the bed. He let out a breath of air, the gust just barely tickling the back of Sherlock's neck.

“This has been a really shitty couple of days, hasn't it?" he said softly, shifting forward to place sure hands on Sherlock's shoulders, massaging at first gently then with increasing intensity in attempt to ease some of the tension out. "Please don't stop talking. I think I'd be lost without the sound of your voice and all those random facts you spout out so self-importantly." He bowed his head forward and placed a kiss in the centre of the back of Sherlock's neck, hands kneading either side. "You can talk to me about family problems, Sherlock. I can handle it. I'm not just here for shags and bickering. As fun as all that is."

"I appreciate your understanding, but we should meet with my mother sooner rather than later. If I allow myself to put it off, I'll never do it and she will only grow more insistent. She's apparently already inquiring after children.” He rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. “I was thinking next week. Time to get you something couture and heal, hm?" He turned himself back around and, after pushing John back a bit, sat cross-legged on the bed. "And yes, it has been a shitty couple of days," he agreed, taking John's hands in his own thoughtfully and kissing the still-bruised knuckles. John couldn't help the little snort of laughter at his mother's insistence, but nodded.

“Besides," he added, a tiny smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, "to be spoiled by you? It's simply too precious to pass up. When you have a day, let me know. I can plan for Sarah to cover for me, if it's in advance." His gaze followed the trail of Sherlock's lips along his sore hands, watching contentedly as his lover kissed his bruises, effortlessly shooting tiny bolts of warmth through every touch. "What's she like?" he asked quietly after a comfortable silence. "As a mother." Sherlock didn't answer for some time, choosing instead to ghost his fingers over John's hands.

"Once, reserved yet kind. But later, cold and distant. Perhaps she is attempting to bridge the gap. I don't know. Even if she is, I don't know if I deserve-" his voice abruptly stopped and he didn't try again. He lay down again, facing away from John. Though John would almost certainly understand, Sherlock didn't want sympathy. He had spoken too much, too soon. 

John should not have asked, never should have brought it up. He should just seep into the bed like a puddle of nondescript liquid and evaporate into a million and one tiny diluted gas particles. John was not the one who should be tactless. He should have known better. And now, Sherlock was pulling away, and his heart was dropping into his stomach.

"I'll get us some tea," he said quietly, swallowing down a lump in his throat. People were like elastic, needing both give and take, John reasoned desperately. Sherlock had opened, and now he wanted to close. The smaller man slipped off the hospital bed and took hold of his IV stand, wheeling it out with him as he adjusted his gown and glanced around to find the food court.

Sherlock wanted to stop him, but still his stubborn reticence denied it. John wandered out, and Sherlock waited until he was out of sight to all but throw himself off the bed and pace with manic energy, occasionally running a hand through his hair. John was trying so hard, and Sherlock couldn't gather enough of his burgeoning empathy to allow him in. Anything else was easily his, but this he found himself unable to give. Even knowing John's childhood was undeniably worse, even when he had _promised_ John every last piece of himself. He forced himself to stop and put his hands to either side of his head. Time. Sherlock just needed time. Once he understood what Mother was looking for, that would help. Yes, that almost certainly would, regardless of good or ill. John could understand that, couldn't he? But already Sherlock was asking for time regarding his time abroad, and _that_ had been life-threatening. John had so much patience, and despite the insistence he'd never leave, that didn't make what he was doing okay. 

Eventually John calmed down. Eventually. It took a good amount of pacing, and some lengthy walks down long, fluorescent-lit halls - doctors and nurses were giving him odd looks - but eventually John was calmed down, and eventually he reached the cafeteria. He went through the motions at the rudimentary tea stand, preparing his own cup and Sherlock's just the way the man liked it. He took a few minutes to himself then, staring down at the two steaming styrofoam cups and leaning against the counter. In his own time. Sherlock would open up in the way he wanted to in his own time. And John would let him, because he knew about bottling things up and he knew about trust issues and he knew about needing time. He let out a loaded sigh, grateful for the fact the room was utterly deserted. John picked up the two cups of tea, nudged the wheels on his IV stand, and started back to the room.

Sherlock had gone back to relentless pacing, waiting for John to come back. Today was supposed to be a  _good_ day, damn it. The day had been saved, both would live to see past it, both were relieved the other was okay...and that was it. No need to turn it into the festering angst-fest Sherlock had deigned it to be. More than all that, though, Sherlock just wanted to be  _home_ , with John. Go back to normal - the new normal. The very,  _very_  new normal he hadn't even begun to grow accustomed to when everything had gone to hell...because of him, of course. The reality of the past few days truly began to sink in - his mistakes in Colombia, nearly killing himself there; nearly killing _John_ , his rescue and their pursuit; all of it played back so quickly it made his head hurt. He dropped himself into the chair next to John's bed and put his head in his hands. So distracted was he by the involuntary reminiscing he didn't notice the door open again.

John had slowly, carefully opened the door, as he didn't have a hand to spare carrying the hot drinks back. Once inside he saw Sherlock had moved from the bed to the chair beside it, and was looking rather haggard indeed. John sighed and set the drinks down on the bedside table. He moved back to his bed but didn't climb into it, merely opting to sit in the edge. Watching the distressed man in the chair a moment that didn't seem to notice his existence, he cleared his throat.

"I want to go home," he said quietly, but firm enough to note that the point shouldn’t be argued. Best to get to the point. Finally Sherlock looked up. "I know you want me to stay here another day, but I just need to rest, and I'd rather be in a bed at home than here. I'm a doctor, for God's sake, so I have everything I could possibly need for myself at home already." He cautiously met Sherlock's gaze. "Please." Sherlock stared for a beat before nodding.

"If that's what you want, of course," he said, voice a little strained. "I mean if it were me let's be honest, I'd be saying to the same thing to you. With more scraping at the wallpaper and carrying on, obviously." He managed a weak chuckle and stood to be directly in front of John. His hands spread across the sides of his partner's head, both in comfort and to comfort himself. "I'll run home and get you clothes. By the time I'm back, you should be about ready to leave, yes?" He paused a moment. "My request was really just being conservative. I want to go home, too, but only if you are coming with me." His eyes held John's and glittered with unspoken apology. His eyebrows lifted .

_Are we okay?_

John pursed his lips in thought a moment, considering everything. His gaze slid into focus moments later and he met Sherlock's gaze again.

"Since when are you conservative?" He smirked in amusement up at the man and the warmth from Sherlock's large hands seeped into the sides of his face. He leant into the touch, expression softening.

_We’re okay._

"And anyway, the tea here is awful. I'm done with this place." His smirk widened just slightly. "It turns out that doctors are idiots." Satisfied John wasn't too terribly upset with him, Sherlock smirked.

"I am conservative in every respect regarding your health and safety. You should be exceedingly glad I haven't followed through on some plots in a case because I had you to consider. And present company excluded, people are idiots, John," Sherlock replied, buttoning up the ill-fitting shirt and slipping on his coat. He gathered up the tattered remnants of his old clothes and stuffed them in the duffel before slinging it back over a shoulder. "I'll be an hour at most, depending on traffic." He crossed back over to John on the bed and thudded their foreheads together, as going nose-to-nose was more than a little uncomfortable for him at the moment.

John smiled at the intimate gesture, reaching a hand up to ghost against Sherlock's cheek for a moment. He watched Sherlock take the duffel over one shoulder and inwardly chuckled at his ability to look like James Bond on the profile, without fail, every time. John watched Sherlock go and marvelled at the show of trust in this small exchange. To let the man slip through his fingers once again, trusting he'd come back. John sat back on the bed, fiddling with the remote anxiously before leaving it be. Yes, he trusted the man; now it was just time to let the man trust him.

Sherlock left with a purposeful stride, mind somewhat more at ease. Nothing had been spoken, and yet he could sense the allowance for time he'd been given regarding the explanation of his family situation. Just a week, and then he'd have enough data to elucidate properly. In the meantime, he'd have to work on chipping away at the veritable mountain of resistance he felt towards telling John anything about the matter. It was the most personal of personal information, to him, especially since John would very easily understand how it made Sherlock into the man he was today. That was the kind of knowledge he'd never given _anyone_ of his own accord, and even though it was John, fear kept too tight a stranglehold on reason to just let him offer up the story. He checked his mobile as a taxi pulled up. It was only early evening; maybe once John was home he'd want some takeaway, or something. The unhealthier the better, if he knew John well enough. He slipped into the taxi, and twenty minutes later he was unlocking the door to 221B.

~

The last thing John had expected was a friendly visit from the British Government. But there he was, Mycroft Holmes - looking rather worse for wear.

"Hello, John."

"Ahem, Mycroft." John blinked and furrowed his brow, trying to discern what could possibly have warranted a visit.

The elder Holmes breezed in, his usual look of general disdain dampened by the large clump of bruises just at his hairline. He held up John's newly-wired phone. John's eyes lit up in realization.

"Ah. Thank you." The army doctor took his phone back. Hesitation almost made him pass up the opportunity, but he caught Mycroft just as he had his hand on the doorknob. "Mycroft?"

"Hm?" There was a long silence. John spontaneously fell mute, but Mycroft remained where he was, his cutting gaze trained on John.

"Yes," he eventually said. John blinked in confusion. 

"You don't know the question," John tried feebly. Mycroft raised an eyebrow in condescending challenge.

"He will let you in eventually, yes. If you give him time."

John's mouth hung open, but he eventually accepted the impossible and nodded weakly.

"Time," John repeated.

Mycroft replied with a stiff nod and swept out the door.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahahahaha hiiiii there. Sorry for the delay - one of us was out-of-country for a bit, then the other one was impossibly busy working overtime at her awful, awful job and, well...yeah. Been a bit of a gap. Nonetheless, here we are with an update AND the addition of some art I had commissioned as a present for my lovely coauthor~ I'll slap it onto the bottom of the chapter, yeah? It's technically from chapter eight, but meh.
> 
> I actually had /two/ pieces commissioned, but the second has yet to be finished and is, well...from this chapter anyway. So I will post it once I have it!

Sherlock clomped up the stairs and sifted through John's drawers for suitable clothes. Ten minutes and a proper shirt for Sherlock himself later, he was back on the sidewalk hailing a taxi, duffel now stuffed with John's things instead of bloodied rags. Another twenty and Sherlock had returned to John's room, enthusiastic and more than ready to get his partner home.

"Honestly, if I bribed a cabbie to go faster on every fare, they'd probably lay waste to my entire trust fund before I was forty," he grumbled, setting the bag at John's feet. He caught his partner’s eyes and tilted his head with interest. "What happened? Something happened. Your disposition has...changed." Sherlock asked, eyes narrowed. John's head snapped to attention.

"What? Oh..." He searched around for something to say, then held up the mobile that had been tucked into his sheets. "Mycroft stopped by. Gave me the new and improved version of my phone. Apparently now it's untraceable, except by the British Government himself, of course." He scratched his scalp, swinging his feet off the bed and standing to grab the duffel with his clothes. "Not sure if that's a good thing." He began ruffling through the bag with unnecessary agitation, tearing out his clothes. He could have gotten his IV off in his sleep, and peeled off the tape before exhaling and sliding out the needle before moving quickly to the bathroom to press some towels against his pinprick.

“Mycroft likely won’t indulge in actively monitoring you. Unless you decide to do something monumentally stupid, or somehow break his trust. So, obviously, very unlikely.” Sherlock followed cautiously after John, leaning against the doorframe between rooms. “Did he launch a particularly barbed comment at you? He’s just projecting from injuring himself in the midst of his loathed ‘legwork’. I doubt he meant to be truly venomous if he did. If he really doesn’t like someone, they usually just die,” he shrugged lightly, aiming for a bit of dark levity.

John was hardly startled by the comment, opting for a small, crooked smirk. He knew that Mycroft, in all likelihood, could and perhaps would just kill off people he didn’t like. It should have made a shiver run through John’s spine at that kind of power in the hands of the government, but honestly? The people it governed had always proven to be far more dangerous.

“No,” he muttered, grabbing medical tape and expertly binding a few layers of folded-up paper towels to his hand in makeshift gauze. “He was fine. I guess I wouldn’t say he dislikes me – actually, I have no idea with that man. Never have.” John turned from the sink and stripped off his papery hospital gown, wiggling into his pants and trousers and pulling on his jumper.

"Mycroft hardly dislikes you. I daresay he even might _like_ you. Quite a statement, considering he merely tolerates most people." Sherlock looked over his shoulder for a last-minute check of anything John might leave behind - nothing. Good. He turned to address John again, but found only a breeze as the other man slipped past him for the main room again. Sherlock briefly dipped his eyes to the floor and braced himself. "You're...still angry," he said, more a confirmation than a question. The conversation technically wasn't finished, after all, and despite their rather remarkable ability to have near-telepathic conversations, this was the sort of thing John usually preferred to actually stop and discuss, though Sherlock didn't really understand why. Very inefficient and more often than not redundant. John had his hand on the doorknob when Sherlock uttered the confirmation. He winced and tightened his jaw, but straightened and slowly turned.

"Yes," he replied quietly. Best to be direct on these rare occasions when Sherlock prompted a difficult conversation first. "I am." He dipped his head to make the statement more casual, take off some of its bite. He took a step forward, then another, treading lightly as if on thin ice in danger of breaching. "I understand, but I am still angry. I am still angry, but I understand." Sherlock stared at the floor again, nodding.

"Okay," was all he could think of to say at first.

"Thank you," also seemed like a good idea to say. He could feel his face taking on a pink tinge for the fact he had no idea what to say or do.

Another phrase prompted itself, though it sounded so terribly hollow despite a herculean effort into giving it emphasis: "I'm sorry."

The bag on his shoulder decided to become severalfold heavier and impossibly itchy against his neck. Should he take John’s hand? Give him space? Answer all his questions right now? Leave it for later, or tomorrow, or next week like he planned? He was growing increasingly confused, cycling through typical social responses but none of them sounding appropriate. His face went blank as he began to descend towards panic.

Sherlock was proving to be a very difficult man to talk about his personal history with. Of course, he was a difficult man in general, so talking about the personal matters of an already-difficult man was exceedingly and, expectedly, difficult. John chewed on his lip and regarded his partner. The man looked confused, lost...panicked. Was he trying to think of something to say?

...No. He was trying to think of the _right_ thing to say. Finally, John stepped forward and laced a long, pale hand in his own, tugging gently.

"Come on, you. Let's go home." Sherlock jumped a little, shaking his head involuntarily to come back to himself.

"...Yes," he dropped clumsily, and decided to cut his losses with that. It was like the episode with Molly in the lab before he'd left all over again. Someone reaching out, trying to give him the understanding and companionship he (reluctantly admitted) he so desperately wanted and needed, but it was as though a giant, translucent wall dropped between them Sherlock couldn't for the life of him figure his way past. He could see the edges on either side, but couldn't muster the ability to walk around it. He was much better than he used to be, true, but exchanging exceedingly personal information (or anytime he felt truly vulnerable, really) was the hurdle he'd never been able to make. He held John's hand firmly but kept his eyes tilted towards the ground as they simply walked out of the hospital together. Mycroft could fiddle with the formalities, concussion or no. Fair? Maybe not, but Sherlock was too distracted to pay much mind to it.

John felt the wall as much as Sherlock. It didn't matter that they were holding hands, quite firmly at that, or that they were together and safe - John felt the wall crashing down between them, too, leaving suffocating silence in its wake. Time, he reminded himself, gritting his teeth as they slipped into one of the many cabs that lined the street. Time was beginning to become John's least favourite word, but at least, he hoped, time would make it better. In the interim, John could keep up his gentle nudges, his subtle ways of showing Sherlock that he could trust John. He resolved to do so and set that thought process aside for the time being, wanting to focus on the glorious moment that would come when he and his love stepped through the door of their flat, together and alive. He smiled out the window at the thought as the driver started off, lightly squeezing Sherlock's hand. They were going home. And that, at least, deserved a celebration.

Sherlock unlocked the door upon their arrival at 221B. Instantly upon crossing the threshold, the characteristic scent of the flat and the inexplicable comfort of _home_ inundated him, taking the edge off his anxiety. Some things could never be fixed about his personality - he would always be terrible with social cues when he was nervous and couldn't sort them appropriately, or would say exactly the wrong thing at exactly the wrong time, but John knew that and was patient as ever. The important thing, Sherlock was learning, was that he at least _try._ He tugged John upstairs and towards their room.

"If rest is what you need, rest you shall have. And unlike if our positions were reversed, you're much more capable of remaining confined to bed for long periods of time." John laughed and allowed Sherlock to pull him into their room, moving to sit on the bed.

"I can promise to be very docile, as long as I'm not confined to bed _alone_ for long periods of time." He stretched out on the bed, letting his weight sink comfortably in at all the pressure points in his body. Slowly as to not arouse any aches in his body, John folded his arms back behind his head and crossed his ankles, looking over at Sherlock. "Well, one advantage to me needing rest is that you'll get to work on things uninterrupted. So if you've any experiments of which I'd disapprove, better do them within the next ten hours." John smiled crookedly up at his mate, only half joking.

"The kitchen is much closer to you now than your old room upstairs. I would reconsider the wisdom of giving me carte blanche," he replied with a small smile, but simply sat on the end of the bed. He looked over his shoulder to John, seemingly at ease on the mattress despite his injuries. _Injuries that are your fault_ , he thought to himself, but shoved it aside. The light banter, too similar to irritating small talk, chafed at Sherlock's metaphorical collar. This was stupid - half a day ago he was curled up against John wanking him off, and now they were _here_. How did that even happen? He crawled up on all fours onto the mattress proper and leant over John. "I...I just want-" he growled in frustration, "I want to be close. We were, now we're not and I don't know _how_ -" The situation was stupid enough, and Sherlock, for once, was _not_ adding to the intelligence quotient of it. He gave up and fell back to sit crosslegged on the mattress, staring petulantly at his feet.

John stopped. For once, he just stopped. He stopped trying to be the calm, collected one. He stopped trying to be the rock, to make normal what was obviously not, when the obviousness of it was too much to bear. He sat up suddenly, breathing quick and loud.

"I. Don't. Know." He swung his feet rather violently off the bed, and rather violently stood to complement the action. He clenched and unclenched his fists, and contemplated smashing the lamp. He turned his head away, ashamed for thinking such a thing, and began to pace. "I...don't...know." His footfalls thudded hard against the wood for his aggression as he stared at the floor in front of his feet. Eventually, the room started to spin he leant against the wall instead. "I don't know, okay? I don't know why things aren't okay when they should be, I don't know why they're not better, I don't know why I was hit with a fucking car and you were slashed at and all these things happened to make everything not okay, because it's a real shame. It's a real crying goddamn shame that I'm standing here trying to make pleasant conversation with you like I don't just want to curl up in you and kiss your fucking brains out and just stop fucking _thinking_ for a while." Tried though he did to deny the impulse, Sherlock shrank back a little at John's violent reaction. One entirely too loud and obvious swallow later, he shuffled forward to sit on the edge of the bed again and extended a hesitant hand to John.

"I...I'm amenable to kissing you," he offered weakly, a questioning lilt added to the end just in case John had been facetious and Sherlock just didn't pick up on it. "A-and the car...the car is my fault. Your kidnapping is my fault. My own injuries were my fault. So...so I suppose the logical conclusion to make is that our current state of affairs is my fault as well." The hand he offered curled into a fist and wilted to his knee. _Now_ what was he supposed to do? His vulnerability and confusion from the hospital returned with reinforcements, but his thought from the stairwell battered back. _Try._ He brought a hand up again, slightly more confident this time, seized John by a wrist and pulled him forward. "What happened to you is because of me. But...I remedied that. And I'll fix this, too. I have to. I need you too much." It sounded like begging. Was it? Was that the right thing to say?

Though John's forehead immediately creased listening Sherlock's self-deprecating words, he turned a distraught gaze up from the floor to Sherlock as he was tugged forward. The contact was like a dousing of cold water and John's useless anger immediately evaporated, leaving behind shock and desperation. His brow trembled, caught between wanting to crease deeply in distress and rise in surprise. He wanted to shoot forward and wrap his arms tightly around Sherlock, like he'd done so easily two days before, to bury himself in the man's skin and scent and lose track of himself in the process. However, he had a sinking feeling that was unacceptable at the present moment, and that killed John. But Sherlock had said he was amenable to a kiss? That, then, was what John was allowed to do. He stepped a bit closer and bent at the waist to press a patient kiss to Sherlock's mouth, not at all the passionate one he wanted to give, but it was a step.

"Please. For both of us."

_Fix this, because I can't right now, and I'm sorry._

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in confusion. Easily, he could see John’s internal struggle, the raging need for comfort and touch and presence. Hadn’t Sherlock done enough to alleviate John’s doubt?

"I only specified kissing because you did," he said slowly, "And I meant that more as an attempt at levity. You don't need to distance yourself on _my_ behalf.” His pupils shrunk as he realised. “You...you've been..." he looked away and shut his eyes.

" _Shit._ I...am an idiot." He looked to John again.

"Just because I haven't any idea how to initiate normal physical contact doesn't mean I don't _want_ to, John. I like my space, certainly, but...not now." John was clearly surprised, but the note of pleading in his eyes didn't abate. He'd been through legitimate trauma the past two days - of course he wasn't in shape for any of Sherlock's whining and doubting and carrying on. Talking about the family visit was perhaps a poor choice of conversation topic on both their parts, but that didn't excuse his behaviour. "And even if I didn't want anyone close, _you_ do. I...I thought you did, but you were angry and I wasn't sure-" He shook his head. No one _cared_ what he had been thinking at the time - it was pointless. He pushed back towards the centre of the mattress, tugging John along with him. "Whatever you want," he reassured. "I have absolutely no idea what you need, but you do. _Take it._ I don't care what it is."

Crippling guilt crashed over John, tossing him about in its deafening undertow. Anger - one of the few things he still didn't have a handle on. It had always been a problem. Another thought struck from the deepest, darkest corners of his subconscious and made itself known in a blatant look of horror on his face. He pushed the unspoken sentiment aside with all haste, opting to climb atop Sherlock with something approaching desperation. Too late, he realised the both of them were still sore and worn.

 "Sorry."

He redistributed his weight by leaning on a forearm, staring down at the man beneath him with a look of agonizing uncertainty before he finally just gave up and plunged down, kissing Sherlock unapologetically. He couldn't go without the contact, the affection, the love - that would make him bitter and poisonous, like _him_ \- he shook the thought away and kissed Sherlock more insistently, sucking at his lip and pressing down more firmly. When he broke away gasping, he managed, "This." He indicated the tiny space between their torsos.

"I need this. Not all the time, not even frequently. But I need this, and I need you." He delved back in before Sherlock could comment, nestling a slightly shaking hand into the dark curls. Sherlock let auto-pilot take over kissing for a few moments while he tried to understand John's expression before he had pounced. His eyelids flickered as he ran an impossibly fast deduction retroactively. What he found made his hands seize John by the shoulders and push him back bodily.

" _Don't_ do that to yourself. I didn't mean to imply your anger was anything like that. Not in the least. If this is what it takes to remind you of that, I certainly don't mind, but I can't just leave such a pointless and categorically untrue sentiment to fester in your head without actually _saying_ something." John was panting over him, clearly just shy of falling apart completely. Sherlock edged them both up to a seated position, staring his partner dead in the eye. "There is absolutely nothing wrong with your emotional response over the past day and a half within the parameters of your personality. Statistically predictable within first sigma - classic. A bit of emotional instability due to being held against your will and beaten to an inch of your life doesn't make you your father overnight, John."

The physical push back moved John far less than Sherlock's words. _Those_ had felt like a shove off a cliff. He sat there, locked in an empty staring match with his partner, unable to look away. For one wild moment, his eyes flashed like those of a madman or a caged tiger, and he thought he might actually do something unpredictable. But as quickly as the crazy glint appeared, it vanished, leaving John exhausted and at the end of his emotional tether for the day. His gaze finally dropped to his lap and he shook his head slowly, numbly.

"Sorry." He winced at the word's own exhaustion. They really needed to come up with a better word than 'sorry', because it didn't even begin to scratch the surface of his intended emotional conveyance. "I just want to go to sleep with you." As soon as the simple, mindless words were out John realized they were true. He wanted, more than anything, to curl up in Sherlock and shut out the world for a few hours. John's sudden and almost complete deflation alarmed Sherlock - because _that_ was certainly outside his regular predictive analysis.

"You don't have to apologize at all," he said, pulling John’s slumping form into an embrace. "I'm just trying to tell you there's nothing wrong with you." He raked fingers back through the short blond hair and hauled John up to the headboard. Careful fingers unbuttoned and did away with John's shirt and jeans before Sherlock removed his own clothes. Hitching up the blankets best he could, he nudged an almost catatonic John under them. Once under himself, he pulled the other man into his arms. "Do you believe me, John?" he asked tentatively, searching his tired eyes.

At this point for his mental faculties, John's only able reaction to the measures being taken for his care and wellbeing was to let his eyelids flutter lower, drooping to shield dulled blue eyes. Well, he got what he wanted. He was, at last, in his lover's arms, ready to drop off to sleep - forever, if his body let him. Dimly he registered that Sherlock had asked him a question. And though John wanted nothing more than to mutter something unintelligible and curl up in slumber, his mind maintained that this man was an important man to him. This man had sacrificed for him, and this man deserved answers to his questions. He turned his head sluggishly up to look at Sherlock.

"I think so." His head was at last too heavy a weight to bear, so he slumped back against the sheets and let his eyelids finally drift completely shut. Before he nodded off, though, he noted the simple warm sanctuary the other's body provided. He would latch onto that warmth every night for years to come, he just knew it. "Thank you," was a breath of a whisper, then his breathing became deep and even.

The answer confused Sherlock more than anything, but he supposed he could ask for clarification in the morning. John was already out. Sherlock himself was nowhere near tired despite the day, but he stayed where he was, tightening his hold around the other man in a rare show of his own emotional compromise. It'd been a hard few days for him, too, after all. And while this wasn't the ending to the day he'd pictured or thought perhaps was appropriate, it did open up a lot of possibility for the morning, when John was fully conscious and on a more even keel.

"I love you," he murmured into John's sleep-deafened ear. "Didn't say that at all, today of all days. Apologies."

~

As a doctor, John had always known sleep was a natural tonic. It provided rejuvenation that no medication could. Rest was a prime prescription, and in John's case, it served him well. When he opened his eyes hours later, they were shades brighter and clearer than they had been in the past twenty-four hours. The ever-present bags underneath his eyes were somewhat lifted, and his skin had returned to its normal tanned hue with a slight tinge of pink, rather than the abnormal, ashen white it had been. It helped, too, that he was wrapped up in a tangle of long, pale limbs, soothing in their own way through their simple presence. He was, at least for the moment, alright.

Sherlock had slept only a scant few hours and woken long before John. On a more normal morning, he’d be up and about, but this was hardly normal. Maybe just on the tail end of unpleasant abnormality, but nonetheless still required the extra show of effort and presence. And as well, Sherlock selfishly enjoyed being able to watch John slowly come to from sleep.

"Morning," he greeted quietly before dropping a few languid kisses along John’s jaw. "You look better. But I think I could offer additional improvement," he said, though it was a bit muffled against his partner’s skin. "It was my egregious error to steal away all the attention yesterday when it should have been yours. If you don't mind it being a little belated, I'd be more than happy to make up for it now." With that his hands slipped carefully down bruised flesh and kneaded at John's hips, as well his mouth to John's neck (on the uninjured side, of course), pressured but unobtrusive, more asking permission than with any real purpose...yet.

"No, you - _ahh_." Sherlock's mouth had swiped over a portion of John's neck that was particularly receptive, and he tilted his head to afford more room. "You know...I don't need much – _ah_ – attention anyway," he managed around a couple warm groans. One hand automatically slid up to sift his fingers through dark, luxurious curls and give a small, encouraging tug. His chest filled with a deep, shaky breath, and he let it out with a heavy sigh. "I wouldn't be – _mm –_ adverse to some attention now, though."

"Mm, don't lie, you're positively starving for it," Sherlock retorted with a toothy smirk. That, at least, was one thing he'd come to understand during the previous night - John needed more touch and attention than usual in the wake of the past few days. "It's fine. Just ask. That's...not something I'm very good at deducing myself." Uncomfortable admission passed, he returned to what he was doing, taking heavy strokes with his tongue up from the crook of John's neck and ending in a sucking point behind his ear. He took a moment to consider how to proceed - John needed to stay off his back and neck for a couple more days at least...ah, yes. Recalling their episode in the hospital room, Sherlock pulled off and sat up, tugging at John's arm gently to sit in his lap.

"I think this will work, but tell me if it's uncomfortable for you." John settled in and Sherlock ghosted an exceedingly gentle hand down his wounded back. "As I told you that first night, I distinctly dislike seeing you upset. This is the best way I can think of I won't fuck up." They would need to take it slow, just as the night before last, but Sherlock had no problem with that - after the frenzy of the last forty-eight hours, something was to be said for the slower path. He opened with wandering, almost innocent kisses at John's brow and across his face, playing entirely by rusty instinct. John was a little confused and a lot excited by the new position, having been mercifully swept off the weight of his back. He sat in Sherlock's lap, knees on either side of the man's hips, arse comfortably settled between his long legs. This was a much more comfortable - and much closer - position, not to mention it hinted at what John had been wanting to do the entire time since he was reunited with his mate. He relaxed down against Sherlock's body, closing his eyes gently as lips brushed over his face.

"Good. It's good," he breathed. Sherlock placed his head carefully against John's, mindful of his own still-pained face.

" _Mi amor_ ," he purred absentmindedly into his ear, teasing at the lobe with his teeth. One hand slipped up John's head and held the back of his skull. His lips just barely brushed the healing skin at the other man's shoulder. " _Te diré todo pronto. Lo siento, tuve miedo_." At least he'd said _something_ on the matter. He rolled his hips up against John in one slow, controlled movement. The hand at John's head began pulling him forward, but Sherlock remembered just in time it was inadvisable. So instead, he dropped it to his hips, it being the only really safe place to put his hands in the interim. "You perfect man," Sherlock murmured as he rolled again, "You are utterly inconceivable. Why you ever would pick me will always be a mystery, and my greatest fortune." He knew it would hurt, but he couldn't stray too far from that mouth and delved in despite it.

There they were, broken and battered and smushed together like it was killing them every second more than a millimeter parted them. Sherlock was kissing him again, and John's head was spinning. That lovely low voice was swirling around in his head, speaking in two tones of amorous declarations, and John kissed him more passionately as if to make up for the fact that he couldn't understand some of his lover's words. But the ones he'd understood clear as day...how could Sherlock ever think that? How could this magnificent man think _John_ the catch, _John_ the impossibility? He simply couldn't conceive of a world in which Sherlock was not the unattainable, the beautiful, the perfect. He tried his best to kiss Sherlock with as much intensity as he could without bothering his bruised face too much. He rolled back down, grinding softly against the hips beneath his own and letting out a small, pitched sigh.

"Christ, I was sure you were divine when I first met you. So sure. You still have me convinced, you know," he whispered, his breath hot against Sherlock's cheek. "Five bloody years of your arse and you still have me convinced." Sherlock's concentration on keeping a slow rhythm broke at John's last words.

" _Five_  years?" he asked, a little incredulous. "Wait, so the night we went to Angelo's...you were...you  _really_ were..."

A smile spread across his face.

"That means I was right, then, about your come-on. Ha! I  _knew_ it. That's always bothered me."  John's expression fell a bit, so Sherlock shook his head, smoothing a hand over the other man’s face.

"What I said that night was true – I _am_  married to my work. You know I am. And even though I was extraordinarily attached to you from the first moment, I never imagined it would be anything like it is now. I...well, I had resigned myself to something of a monk-like fate long before we met. So I turned you down, and began to wholeheartedly regret it after the episode at the pool." He ground up against John again, pressing their foreheads together as his eyelids fluttered in response. "And again, I'm sorry it took me so long to come around. Though I do find it altogether endearing you've held out from the beginning. It makes you all the more inconceivable. You could have had your pick of  _any_  man or woman in the past five years. However much you think I'm unattainable, I'm not; I'm insufferable, and as such, am not blessed with the attentions of others you so easily attract." He pressed into a long, heavy and lapping kiss to accentuate his point. At once John's face flushed a deep red.

"I..." He sighed, sinking into the kiss and opening his mouth to tangle their tongues together for a good long time. "I've been attracted to you for five years and some whatever days, whenever I first saw you in Bart's. I've...I've known I was going to fall in love with you just a few hours less than that, after shooting that cabbie. I never even fancied you. It just went straight from some little spark to 'well, I'm fucked'."

"John," Sherlock murmured incredulously up at him, as for once John was a bit higher than him from being seated on his lap. Why hadn't he ever said anything? 

_Well, what would I have done if he had?_  he thought to himself, honestly unable to come up with an answer. It didn't really matter anymore. "I suppose that means I have a lot more catching up to do than I thought," he finally replied, mischief lacing his tone.

John grinned and tilted his head back in a little show, exposing his neck as he let out a low, smooth groan before his head snapped back forward to press their foreheads together as gently as possible. His eyes were almost black.

"Please."

John was fully hard and throbbing between them, ushered on by his bout of sentiment, whereas Sherlock was still a little behind. Long fingers gently pet at John’s length; languid moans and shivering curses from his partner got Sherlock up to speed quickly enough. However, Sherlock still wanted to keep a measured pace - rather than tell John this, he conveyed the idea in another long, breathless kiss while kneading at his arse with pale hands. Grumbling to himself for not thinking of getting it out earlier, he fumbled for the nightstand. John proved too limiting to Sherlock's reach, so John took over the responsibility, snickering all the while. He nicked it from the drawer and passed it off to Sherlock. Though not as anatomically well-trained as John, of course, he figured he knew enough to get by. Once his hand was appropriately lubed up, he spread his legs a bit to make room for his hand to slip under John and press against him, opting to merely make slow, introductory circles at his entrance. Arms suddenly wrapped around his neck as John bowed into him, head just to the left of his own.

"Sensitive, are we?" he asked lightly, still only turning circles against him.

This was not something John had ever done before. Sherlock had to have known that, but even without acknowledging as much he seemed to be working at just the right combination of speed and gentility. John's entire body arched more as Sherlock's fingers teased his entrance, the strangeness of the feeling swirling with the pleasure of sensitivity to create a dizzying cocktail. He fought not to constrict his arms around Sherlock's neck so tight he'd cut off the man's windpipe, but practice proved to be more difficult than theory. When Sherlock began to just barely dip the tips of his fingers inside, John gasped and trembled a little, squeezing his eyes shut and grabbing a mouthful of the other man's neck.

 "Good, good," he assured the other, his voice a muffled, breathless mumble into Sherlock's skin. His arse edged back just enough to be wanton. John recoiled a bit as would be expected, so Sherlock pulled his free hand up to palm his partner lightly and stroked a bit.

"That should help," he reassured at a murmur. Slowly but surely two fingers made their way inside, teasing the muscle open. Sherlock continued mumbling little bits of encouragement, swapping between Spanish and English as he pleased to keep John relaxed. When he tensed in particular, he'd stroke for a minute or two in an easy rhythm. "Clearly you want this as much as I do," he said as John neared readiness and had barely softened. That, and the way John had dropped his hips and spread his legs to allow Sherlock better access made the younger man all but drool for its prostration.

"It's remarkable, really, taking in a whole other person. Everything shrinks down to just that feeling, and all you care about is keeping them with you long as possible." He drew out his syllables as he spoke, punctuating them with long, teasing strokes inside John. He couldn't see his face, given it was buried in Sherlock's shoulder, but the noises he was making were more than enough. "Are you ready?" he asked lightly, letting his fingers drag just a touch as he began to pull out fully. He kissed John on the neck and just enjoyed the scent of him for a few moments, noting how different it was when he was aroused. 

Sherlock's words as well as his tone were soothing John just enough so his body wasn't actively resisting the intrusion. He still couldn't help a few moments of sudden panicked tightening, but always eventually Sherlock knew how to relax him. Each time those fingers would brush something sensitive inside him he would give a tiny start and a light moan before sinking back into the feeling. When the man pulled his fingers out and barely teased along John's prostate in the process, he whimpered for the shock of pleasure that shot through him, and the fact that it was so short a sensation. Quickly, his rational mind kicked in and reminded John he was about to be filled much more fully than that, and the sensation would last likely far past as long as he needed to be satisfied. The thought made a tiny shudder run through him, and he eased his legs open even wider in front of Sherlock, knees trembling slightly on the mattress.

"Yes," came a dry, lusty reply, heartbeat speeding up in anticipation as he fought the impulse to close his eyes and instead looked down steadily at his love. Enthusiasm made the lighter blues in John’s eyes appear to shimmer, causing a lecherous smirk to cut Sherlock's face.

"Right. Up, love." John did as he was asked, but a last-minute thought crossed Sherlock's mind as he lined up and finished lubing his shaft. "I think...you should hang onto the headboard. At least at first. And it's your pace - I won't move too much unless you want me to. John nodded and dropped his head for a quick peck as he readjusted his grip. Sherlock leant in and kneaded his lover's collarbone soothingly with his mouth, left hand around himself and right at John's hip as he came down slowly. When the head was taken, however, Sherlock pitched forward into John's chest and his jaw slackened entirely. His breath left him in heavy pants and it was all he could do to leave his hands neutrally at John's hips and not try to shove him down to complete the enveloping of his cock.

" _John_ ," Sherlock slurred, voice laden with surprised lust.

At once a hot burst of discomfort shot through John and he winced, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from making a noise. He realized he was holding his breath and when the head of Sherlock's length popped through the ring of his entrance, all his breath left him in a harsh whoosh. He gasped in a quick fill of his lungs and at once was glad Sherlock had redirected his grip to the headboard, because he was gripping onto that wooden slab like it was his only handhold on the edge of some bottomless precipice. He knew Sherlock was in just as much agony as he was, though perhaps of a slightly different sort, and so he lowered himself down onto his lover's cock slowly but stubbornly, refusing to stop until Sherlock was buried inside him to the hilt. Vaguely John realized he was sobbing and shaking, and somewhere in the back of his hazed-over medical mind he knew he should start moving if it was going to get any better. He gave one half-hearted rock, felt Sherlock's cock shift inside him, and nearly bit his own tongue off from the intense burst of pleasure that began to mix with the dulling pain, throwing his head back with a strangled whine. John's sharp inhalations of pain cut past Sherlock's dumbfounded haze and he rushed to alleviate it, cupping the back of John's head in one hand and stroking him lightly with the other.

"Fine. You're fine, love," he managed past his continued panting. When John tipped his hips just that once, stars lit the edges of his vision and all his verbal faculties temporarily shut down. Before his partner got it in his head to do it again, Sherlock peppered the side of John's face with uncoordinated lips, nipping up the trails of the few stress-induced tears that had actually made the journey from the eyes. "Keep going. You have to m-" his voice died again as John did just that, a little more confidently this time. Involuntarily the arm slithered around John's shoulders locked in place, fisting itself in the just-long-enough hair. The one around John's cock spread across his thigh instead and took it in a death grip. And so John continued in sudden, almost experimental jolts of the hips, caging Sherlock's head in his arms. Sherlock's hand around him helped blunt the discomfort, and soon John wondered why his face was damp with tears when he was experiencing the most intense zaps of pleasure he'd ever known.

The quick, uncoordinated jolts of his hips turned into actual thrusts as John desperately searched for the angle that would have Sherlock hitting his prostate at every movement. Light, huffing moans were pouring out of him like water, unrestrained and swirling around their two entwined bodies. He was soon grinding down onto Sherlock with a frantic haste that didn't really make sense, because John had to _move_ and they were running out of time and _what time?_ His vision seared as the other man jostled against some white-hot bundle of nerves inside him and his body seized. Oh. _Oh_. His stunned mind helplessly supplied 'prostate', as if that would alleviate his paralysis. This was what Sherlock had been talking about, wasn't it? Everything shrinking down to a pinpoint of feeling. Wanting to hold the other person inside you as long as humanly possible. John's leg muscles twitched and he relaxed from his taut position, sinking down onto Sherlock's dick even more. Swallowing what was probably fifteen times in one minute, John shakily lifted his tight grasp from the headboard and crossed his arms tightly behind Sherlock's head, drawing their faces together. His thrusts became long, languid, and curved, his intentions clear. He was going to fuck himself on Sherlock exactly the way he wanted, and wring as much pleasure from the both of them as possible.

Before they'd begun, Sherlock had been a tiny bit worried as to just how much he was going to get out of this compared to John. Having been on the receiving end, he knew what John would experience. Not that that had truly bothered him; he'd been interested in this position in part to be able to watch John fall apart in his lap. Now having let John cross to the proverbial greener grass, he realized he never needed to worry. For however tight it had seemed being taken by John, in was incredibly moreso when he was the one giving. He'd given John carte blanche to do as he wished with minimal interference from Sherlock - now he knew he didn't even _have_ to move. Every tiny twitch of muscle or throb of bloodstream from one or the other lit his synapses in a lightning storm. John encased Sherlock completely in his limbs, pulling them closer in oblong cycles as he writhed on top. This was  _exactly_  what Sherlock had wanted - taking John, the bucking, the name-calling...but not quite as he anticipated. Dimly he registered his own hands scraping restlessly at John's skull, his own voice pitched and broken, echoing off the walls painted with early sunlight through his blinds. John remained silent and bent, focused on recreating perfect bliss with every snap of his hips, tightening around Sherlock in an extra show of shuddering want on particularly loud cries of his name. There was no snappy banter this time, or tactical application of tongue or hand to tease from either party - there was only overwhelming sensation pouring in to drown them together, and as John went mute, Sherlock's impossibly massive lexicon devolved to only one word screamed and panted and mouthed -  _John_. 

_That_ \- Sherlock whispering, moaning, screaming his name - was his favourite sound, he knew now. It was, hands down, the most erotic thing he'd ever heard, and it made him more desperate than ever. His slow, intense pace was augmented by a subtle clenching as he pulled up and ground back down, Sherlock's shaft dragging across his prostate in tantalizingly slow strokes. Blinding satisfaction filled his core by the second; he could only assign the tiniest sliver of his mind to hoping it was just as excellent for Sherlock. Despite his desire to keep the other inside him for as long as possible - because, really, if that wasn't the most _erotic_ thought humanly possible - John knew he was teasing himself a little too much. Each throb around Sherlock seemed to have more pressure than the last, and John could swear he heard his own pulse in his head. A pitched, aborted moan broke through his silent screams as he firmly wrapped his legs around Sherlock's back for traction. He tightened his arms around the other man's shoulders, clenched his body as tightly as he could, and began to pound himself down onto Sherlock.

John's tightening around him made Sherlock's jaw drop anew, and even made his tongue loll out a bit. Slapping of skin on skin kept him grounded in the moment enough to fix his hand back on John's dick again. It wouldn't be long for him at all, not with this level of pressure and scent and sound of his lover permeating every facet of his existence. He pulled at John hard, desperate to keep them on track together. Sherlock _needed_ John to come with him in a way he'd never wanted anything before – more than his deepest drug rut, than the terrified sentiment that had sent him, limbs wheeling, off the edge of Bart’s nearly four years previous. They’d shared a home and adventures since the beginning; time and ever-growing intimacy demanded the surrender more and more territory and independence, and now, their very bodies. It only made sense that the last threshold be crossed to share ecstatic sensation as one mind.

His abdomen began to clench and his thighs burned from bucking back, but he couldn't tell if John was on the precipice as well. Sherlock called his name again, whimpered and pleading for companionship as the tides of orgasm began to tear past Sherlock's haphazard attempts to keep it at bay and give himself time. John's dick twitched heavily in his hand in response just as his biological floodgates were torn asunder, and Sherlock basked all the more in his climax knowing he'd accomplished his goal. He filled John in thick spurts, increasing the pressure inside to heighten the sensation. His hands had fastened themselves to his partner's arse, giving him leverage as his hips pressed into John insistently. Every inch of him shook violently, muscle tensed well beyond its usual limits. And as for his mind, the brain John found so massive and inconceivable - Sherlock was relatively sure it was cooking inside his skull, fried beyond recognition by his own electrical impulses. He couldn't care less, either; if he was fated to have his intellect burned away by this moment, this man wrapped around him and join the huddled masses of the other sheep, well...small price to pay.

It was the burst of Sherlock inside him that made John finally call out in climax. The hand on his dick was surprising and burning, and before he even had time to think he was shooting against both their stomachs, but it was the steady stream massaging his insides and pummeling his prostate that made John stop moving, let his lover take over, throw his head back and wail Sherlock's name. He was sure the other man would have heel marks and claw trails adorning his back to join the other scars and wounds, and was just fine with that. His entire being was shaking, flushed, wrung out from pressure and pleasure the likes of which he'd never known. And John let Sherlock drive into him, pushing him further and further into the realm of utter bodily devastation. Each time the man bucked up into him, now, John was whimpering Sherlock's name, using every bit of energy left to ensure his partner knew how utterly rapturous it had been for him despite his previous silence. When at last Sherlock slowed down and the two stopped moving, John stopped him from pulling out, wanting to take these precious few moments to bask in the level of their closeness. He dropped his head against the other man's shoulder, panting, and just listened for a heartbeat.

Sherlock had begun pulling out as a courtesy to John, and was exceedingly happy to be stalled for even those few seconds. His hands relinquished from John's arse and slithered up the other man’s wrecked back possessively. This was the closeness he'd craved yesterday, and judging from John's violent reaction at the time to his demand to understand, the other man had needed it, too. He kissed the patch of neck he could reach given the angle at which John was bent, and fingers slowly wiggled against the skin in a restless attempt to absorb his lover through touch alone.

"Transcendent," he finally managed to slur into his skin. Words at last seemed to be writing themselves back into his internal dictionary and his speech properly returned to him. "Anything hurt?" he asked, voice creaking. They hadn't been particularly rough, but it  _had_  been intense - perhaps in the aftermath too much so for John's greater injuries. He tugged John's head up and kissed him, hoping to soften the inevitable discomfort of pulling him off. John melted into the kiss, relishing his partner's possessive closeness. He exhaled deeply as he pulled away, clouded-over eyes meeting Sherlock's gaze. In that exceedingly John way, he shot the other man a small, wry smile.

"Can't hardly move," he replied, though only half jokingly. His gaze turned just a bit more serious. "Help?" he appealed to his partner, this time not joking in the slightest. Sherlock quickly moved to his aid, laying him down as gently as possible. John shivered as he pulled out, squirming a little at the feeling of being empty and wet. He tossed an arm over his eyes. "How do you walk again after that?" he groaned, glancing over at Sherlock with a little gleam in his eyes to let the man know he was, on the whole, alright.

"Carefully," Sherlock replied, laying down himself and tugging John on top of him. It served a dual purpose - he wanted to keep John close as well as continue to keep him off his back. "Too much?" he asked, more concerned for John's well-being than anything. _He_ had certainly liked it, and obviously so had John, but that didn't mean it was something he wanted to repeat anytime soon. "You seemed...pained at first. Did I not prepare you well enough?" He stroked John's back lightly; he should probably clean and see to those cuts in a little bit. Once he'd had his fill of this closeness - not anytime soon. He carefully put his bruised nose to the hair under his chin and closed his eyes in quiet rapture. John turned his head to the side and laid it against Sherlock's chest, at last able to fully hear the other man's heartbeat. He hummed in response.

"It was transcendent," he assured his mate, using Sherlock's word from before. Careful not to hit Sherlock's bruised face on the way up, John turned his head to meet his partner’s gaze, resting his chin on Sherlock's damp chest. "You were perfect. I was...tense. Anticipating it too much." He leaned up to gently kiss that cupid's bow mouth. "Thank you for letting me set the pace. And...for taking it over when I needed you to." Sherlock's face split with a warm, reserved smile, but contentment lit his eyes from behind to accentuate the expression.

"Calling me perfect is redundant, John. That's apparent in everything I do," he said, making the man huddled to his chest jiggle as he laughed. "Besides," he continued more softly, running the tips of his fingers along John's jawline, "you were brilliant, too. Seems 'thank-god-you're-not-dead' sex is rather superior." He slipped both arms around his partner and hitched him up a bit in an uncharacteristic embrace. "Because I am relieved you're not dead. So, so relieved," he murmured, all trace of humour and teasing vanished. His fingers twiddled with the bit of hair on the nape of John's neck as he held him.

John's teasing smile abruptly vanished, replaced by a weak shudder. The fingers at the nape of John's neck made his flesh rise slightly in goosebumps, but he played it off best he could with a half-teasing shrug and shake of the head to nudge Sherlock’s hand away. His jaw and grip tightened just the slightest, but he kept his eyes locked on Sherlock and gave a slow exhale to calm himself down – Sherlock would just think it was the subject at hand affecting him, anyway. He didn’t know – and he didn’t _need_ to know, especially right now.

"I'm relieved, too," he replied at last, his voice low and serious. He lifted his hands slowly to smooth the pads of his fingers over Sherlock's wounded face in light, gentle motions, taking extra comfort in the simple sensation of touch, _feeling_ Sherlock under his hand as well as seeing him. "I'll get some soothing pads for that face of yours, once I can figure out how to walk again." He leaned up to just barely kiss Sherlock's nose. "Maybe some swelling cream, too."

"My face isn't important. Your back, on the other hand, needs tending."

John flushed slightly and smiled to himself. "Sorry, I'm being too..." John decided to cut himself off and instead press loving kisses along the swell of Sherlock's chiseled jaw. "I love you. God, do I love you."

"And I, you. More than you know,” Sherlock replied quietly. He held John's eyes for a long moment, a self-conscious smile tilting on his features. Reluctantly, he slipped out from under John and off the bed.

"Be right back." He tossed on a pair of briefs and padded over to the bathroom, digging around for John's medical kit.

John sighed; it seemed only seconds that Sherlock had been in his arms before slipping out of them again. He understood, of course, and Sherlock was being sweet and caring, but he wished he could hold the man without fear of hurting one of them. Sherlock returned with the kit and a damp washcloth.

"You want to sit up or stay where you are?" he asked as he sat on the edge of the bed. The welts and cuts on John’s back were still pink, but not the angry red they'd been at first. Nonetheless, it still looked absolutely awful and would almost certainly scar - at least John would hardly ever see them. Sherlock, on the other hand, would and it would serve as a terrible reminder any time his partner was shirtless. That was his problem, though, not John's. John laid there on his stomach, resting his cheek on his folded arms.

"I'll just stay here, I suppose." He twisted his neck a bit more and his gaze caught on the medical kit, and the corner of his mouth turned up in a small, affectionate smile. "You like to pretend you're reserved and detached, but you take care of me when I need it." Sherlock flushed.

"I'm not so  _detached_  as to let your injuries grow infected," he mumbled as he dabbed off the leftover bits on his torso. That done, he turned his attention to the kit. John kept it well-stocked, both from the inborn paranoia of being a doctor and for the fact they lead lives that required the odd bit of stitches every now and again. He ran a gentle hand alongside the worst cut with stitches, testing their tension before snatching up the peroxide and dabbing it on a swab. Tentatively he pressed it into John's skin, receiving only a mild twitch in response. "So...if you are amenable to it, I'd...still like to take you to Bond Street and pick up a few things for you. I assume you've never owned a custom-tailored suit before?" he asked, trying to keep his tone nonchalant. The only sound John made as Sherlock diligently cleaned him up was a sharp intake of breath at the touch of peroxide to his deepest cut. After that he kept quiet, quickly getting used to the dull sting of the chemicals against his wounds. He let out a calculated breath and shook his head.

"No. I've owned custom-made jumpers, however." At Sherlock's dubious glance, he smiled. "My mum knitted a couple to take with me to Afghanistan." He left the puzzling comment hanging, instead steering back to the original topic. "Yeah, we can go if you like. I'm game - but I don't want you spending unnecessary amounts on me. I'm simple, I don't need much." Sherlock's mouth twitch in a smirk.

"I believe I used the word 'exorbitant' yesterday, did I not? Nothing I'd ever buy you would be  _unnecessary._ It's nice to have a reason to spend money that is otherwise lying rather uselessly in banking limbo somewhere." Sherlock measured out a bandage for the worst cut, deciding the others should be fine left as they are. He was fixing it with medical tape when his eyes narrowed in contemplation. "Are you...still in touch with  _your_  mother?" John had never mentioned her before their first night together; only Harry had ever been brought up, and that was infrequent for obvious reasons. Sherlock avoided the equally obvious follow-up question regarding John's father - that would just be painfully redundant. John let out a little grunt of acknowledgement as Sherlock bandaged him up.

"Sometimes, when she asks for me. It's a bit complicated." He flexed his shoulders and rolled them back after being bandaged, pushing himself up to a sitting position. Sherlock let his hand drift down to John's hip as he explained, punctuating his partner's words with a light press of fingers in silent show of solidarity. "She has…some sort of mental thing. It's undiagnosed, she's always refused to go to a doctor. I have my own professional opinions, but anyway, the point is she's not all there. I mean, she knitted me jumpers for a desert, for God's... Anyway, I go visit her when she asks for me, because it calms her down." He looked over at Sherlock, swallowing before asking, "And...what about yours?"

"Save for a few phone calls and letters, I haven't spoken with my mother in ten years. In person, that is. Mycroft imposes upon me if my mother wishes to speak to me for whatever reason. You...are a significant enough development in my life to warrant visiting. Hence why I can't put it off or simply turn it down. Even I feel the occasional bout of familial duty. And as I said yesterday...she might be...trying to reach out peaceably. I won't know until I'm there, by design. We Holmeses are all crafty and duplicitous by nature," he finished with a mirthless smirk. "But concerning your own mother...I-I'm sorry she is...mentally unsound?" he said, ending his sentiment as a question because he had no idea if that was the tactful thing to say in a situation like this. At that, John smiled warmly. Sherlock was trying. And in this particular instance, he was not alone in his confusion as to how to deal with mental illness. John found that that was a more societal thing. He leaned in for a patient and grateful kiss, and when he pulled back he couldn't resist lightly cupping Sherlock's distinct face in a warm hand.

"It's alright. And I feel...honoured, that you consider me a large enough part of your life to meet your mother." Dropping his hand from Sherlock's face, he stood and wiggled into his own pair of boxers on the floor, then moved to crack a chemical reaction temperature pack from the med kit. He dropped it onto the mattress for a few minutes, waiting for the heat from the exothermic reaction to die off and the cold from the endothermic reaction to seep out. "Put this on your face," he instructed gently. Sherlock took it and did as asked, wincing at the cold against his bruised skin.

"No need for the pomp and circumstance of honour, John. You and the work  _are_  my life," he said with much more confidence than he anticipated. "So shall I assume you will keep the nature of our life together secret from your mother? I have no issue either way; however I certainly can appreciate the sentiment of wanting your parent’s nose out of your personal business," he said with a touch of bitterness, but left it at that. No need to drag his own angst into it. He slid himself back up the bed and sat against the headboard once more, motioning with his free hand for John to join him. At the further angle, the purple staining John's torso was vibrantly apparent, causing Sherlock's eyebrows to gather briefly in distress.

"Stop it," John cut in, leaving the other surprised. He gingerly crawled over to Sherlock's seated body and curled against his side, both arms comfortably encasing Sherlock's waist as the majority of John's weight rested against the other man's side. Once he was comfortable, he decided to speak again. "You have to stop doing that. Torturing yourself every time you look at my injuries. I don't blame you for them, and you'll only drive yourself mad." To soften his words, he pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock's collarbone.

"Sorry," Sherlock mumbled, smoothing over John's bicep with the hand wrapped around his shoulders. "It's just...jarring to look at," he admitted quietly before kissing him on the head in apology.

"As for my mum,” John continued with measurable discomfort, “she actually does know about you. Well, she doesn't know you by name, but I tell her about our cases sometimes to entertain her. She seems to respect you. I...I dunno if I'll tell her about us, just yet. Best to do it slowly."

"So you've told her about me? When have you been making these visits without me noticing?" His tone was easy, more surprised than accusational. "And it really is fine if you'd rather not tell her at all. I mean...how did she react to Harry? Or does she even know about Harry?" At least he no longer had to worry about Mother's approval, but John, on the other hand...

"It's okay," John replied quietly, and laid his head carefully in the crook of Sherlock's neck. "She knows about Harry. My sister's not one to hide a part of who she is." Despite himself he smiled and shook his head a little against Sherlock's neck. "Mum was surprised, and a little disconcerted at first. I think she still sort of doesn't understand, but she was happy to see Harry happy." He grinned, and turned his face into Sherlock's neck a little in mild embarrassment. "I may have mentioned you a few times. Every now and then I take a sick day from the surgery to go visit her." He hummed a little in a gentle sigh. General and mostly circuitous as the conversation about their mothers was, he decided he was at his limit and opted to try abandoning it. Not to mention he didn’t want to start another argument, unlikely as it was to happen after such an excellent bout of sex. "So…what sort of suit should I be wearing to meet your mother?" John flushed a little for his attempt’s obviousness, but Sherlock merely returned a small smile and briefly tightened his half-embrace around his partner’s shoulders. The ice pack drifted away from his face as he spoke, bobbing this way and that in gesticulation.

"I was thinking something in a lighter colour, British cut - you haven't the waistline for European. More than anything just...something that doesn't look like you picked it up from a department store for a court appearance," Sherlock replied absently, watching a finger tease through John's hair. "Perhaps she has relaxed somewhat in her age, but she will no doubt still stand on ceremony for your visit. Dinner in the _hall_ with _service_ and whatnot," he continued, voice edged with biting sarcasm. "I think I might have deleted proper etiquette for formal dinners - hmph, have to look it up online or something." He _really_ wasn't looking forward to it, but the excuse to take John downtown for shopping made it slightly more palatable.

“Mm, maybe you should pick it out, then.” John made a tiny self-conscious face that was visible to no one, what with his face pressed into Sherlock’s neck. “I haven’t really the refined tastes to know what’s appropriate.”

“Hence why _I’m_ going with you shopping,” Sherlock replied with a teasing smirk. “Help you with that, as well as perhaps find a few other things for you.”

John pulled back just enough to look up at Sherlock. “Is the…hall for special occasions, then?” He smirked just a tiny bit. “Lucky for you, I had manners laid into me from an early age, so you won’t have to worry about some uncultured ruffian embarrassing you at the table.” Sherlock found it painfully ironic that John’s family, being what it was, put such effort into ingraining manners into John as a child, but knew better than to comment on it for once.

“This is more akin to tea with the Queen as opposed to saying ‘please’ when asking for the salt, John. But you’re right, I’m not too worried about you performing some kind of faux pas. Though I‘d be more than happy to join you in some kind of violent food fight just for the sake of scandal,” he said, snickering. “The look on Mycroft’s face alone would make it worthwhile.” John laughed freely, scrunching up his nose at the vision of the elder Holmes brother's horrified face.

"Ah, so Mycroft is joining us, then? How lovely." He grimaced a little, but managed to save it at the end and gave a small smile. "Though a food fight would be positively classic...but I think, mainly, since I'm trying to impress her, here--it'd just be a shame to see a beautiful suit utterly ruined. Maybe we can save the food fight for later." He winked and pecked Sherlock's jaw.

"Excellent point. Perhaps mattress surfing down the staircase in the entrance hall instead, then. However I'm not sure if Mycroft will be there. He hasn't said, and it could go either way." He sobered considerably and slumped against the headboard to be level with John. "I...will probably be varying shades of insufferable when we go," he said, leaning his head against John's now-accessible shoulder. "I should apologise in advance. Much as I'd like to say I'll do my best not to be..." he shrugged noncommittally. John adjusted his arms around Sherlock so he could skim the pads of his fingers along his defined spine, and bending his head to mouth at Sherlock’s shoulder.

"I know you will. It's nothing new. And if it is, I'll be able to handle you. Whatever happens, we'll be right there to back each other up. We've survived guns, bombs, and knives--we'll survive a visit to your mother's." He smiled, a touch of humour tingeing his features. "I think."

"Warrantless confidence - another facet of you I can always count on.”

Turning where he sat, Sherlock took John's hips in his hands and slid them back down to a supine position and tugged the blankets back over them, wanting both John and the extra warmth. The compulsion to nuzzle into his partner's face was strong, but an attempt to do so ended in a wincing scrunch as his nose protested. He gave up and settled for just watching him from across a pillow. John welcomed the shift in position, sliding up against Sherlock gently but with intent. He let out a content, low noise that sounded surprisingly close to a purr. He smiled at Sherlock's effort at intimacy despite his wounds, taking up the motion himself as he nudged his nose against the unbruised half of Sherlock's cheek.

"Do you...remember what I said before you fell asleep last night?" Sherlock asked. Given how exhausted and distant he'd been, John very well may have not registered the exchange at all. That would certainly explain the oddness of his response. John hummed in thought and frowned.

"I don't...I don't think so. I was more than a little rattled...What did you say?" He tilted his head at the other man, unbearably curious.

"I...told you that being upset over what happened to you didn't make you like your father. It clearly crossed your mind when I mentioned you being angry with me. When you originally told me about that, you used past tense, but...it's not in the past, is it?" he asked with hesitant concern. "You were all but trying to physically suck affection from me. And your eyes..." he drifted off, taking to running the pads of his fingers along John's jawline with comforting pressure. This was _very_ uncharted territory for Sherlock, but again, this was about _trying_ , wasn't it?

John's face immediately fell. He turned a little ashen and blinked down, avoiding Sherlock's gaze. But, really, what was he avoiding? He wasn't surprised to find that Sherlock, brilliant, observant man as he was, even in his emotional handicap, was able to read John like a book. So, really, what was the point in trying to hide what his partner had practically been able to see from the beginning?

"No," he replied tentatively, looking back up at those earnest eyes. "It's not in the past. I'm sorry for losing it. I just...I know that some part of him is in me, I can feel it. But I want you to know that I'd sooner swallow a bullet than hurt you."

"I wouldn't call anything you did at any point yesterday 'losing it'," Sherlock replied confidently. "Just because you have a capacity for something doesn't mean you actually act on it. You know just as well as I do what sort of _capacity_ I have for violence. I've been violent in innumerable ways, too, though never to the extent I know I could be if pushed hard enough. Self-control is the most important aspect you aren't considering, John, and you have it in spades, likely _because_ of your upbringing." His eyebrows drew together and his voice went flat with emphasis. "You haven't done anything wrong or hurtful to me or _anyone_...well, save that one thug you killed, I suppose..." he said dismissively, "as part of this episode. Certainly nothing wrong in your reaction to it. Trauma is trauma. Anyone else, including myself apparently, would be a shivering lump under these blankets."

Sherlock had hardly stopped speaking before John was against him, pressing lingering kisses up along his long, slender neck. He couldn't help it--not only was he driven by this need for giving and receiving affection, but Sherlock's little speech was one of the most...well, _human_ things he'd ever shared with him. Sherlock stiffened a bit in surprise at John's unbridled reaction, but relaxed quickly enough.

"I hardly...I hardly know what to say," John managed to murmur between kisses. "How is it that once again you surprise me with your insight?" He chuckled a little half-heartedly, huffing out warm breaths against his partner's skin. "It's difficult for me, too. This being vulnerable business." He took a deep breath. "Sometimes, I do need a little more affection. It's not a big thing, but sometimes I just...crave it. Crave you."

"That was something else I mentioned last night. I'm not bothered by it if that's what you need to ease your mind - I just felt the need to speak my thoughts on the matter as well. Because it's a ridiculous and inaccurate sentiment to hold, completely in contrast to the man you actually are...but I understand the compulsion of negativity well. What I'm telling you is redundant - I'm sure you understand all that objectively - but despite everything I say and do regarding logic, I _do_ realise sometimes that's not enough." His lips bent a bit with mischief. "Though knowing that I am a _craved_ commodity from time to time isn't all that bad, either." Despite himself, John chuckled quietly, cheeks flushing.

"You really don't see it, do you? You _are_ craved. You _are_ wanted. I…" He scoffed at himself. "I've never actually needed anyone as much as I need you. And I don't even mean in a sexual way - though obviously, there's that. It kind of terrifies me, but I'm relieved, as well." He shrugged apologetically. "I don't know if that makes sense, or is the most saccharine thing you've ever heard, I just...I want you to know that you are the most important person in my life. And that means that sometimes I'm going to get angry at you because I know I can, and I'm going to want to take care of you because _I_ need to. But...and I know this is redundant...I also want you to know that I'm here for you, too. For all your little compulsions. For your family strain. For your constant struggle to communicate. I'm here for you for all of it."

One single word amongst so many emphatic ones - _needed_ \- bored into Sherlock's skull and nestled comfortably in the dank corner he normally stuffed his feelings into, warming and lighting it in a way he hadn't experienced likely since he was a child. Before he destroyed his own rosy, imaginative existence with his incalculable intelligence and let the real world tear apart and consume him entirely by accident. Each and every word John had spoken, despite Sherlock's knee-jerk insistence they couldn't be, was real and sincere and _entirely for him_. Someone wanted, _needed_ him beyond his mere intelligence; not in spite of it, of course - they accepted and wanted that just as much, but it was the fact that it wasn't the point. Only one part amongst many others even Sherlock himself tried to deny existed. He had no idea what to do with it and was left sitting there, mouth slightly open and a vague (and entirely inaccurate) expression of surprise pasted across his face. A numb hand crept around the back of John's head and pulled him in wordlessly to hold him there for an extended stretch of time.

"Okay," he finally managed several minutes later, more a cracking utterance of acknowledgement than a real word.

If he were to think about it, John wouldn't say he had the ability to read his partner - that was definitely more a Sherlockian skill and suggested that his conclusions were reactionary and disconnected from himself. Suggestions (of both himself and Sherlock) which were, by the way, hugely false. But no, he didn't read Sherlock, he existed with him. Alongside. Together. He didn't read Sherlock because he didn't have to. Because their beings had, somehow at some point, slid together to exist in tandem. They complemented each other. It was quite simple, really, and it was for this reason that John didn't speak in that long silence between his own confessions and Sherlock's response. He knew not to. He simply laid there in his mate's arms and patiently drank in their unconscious harmony. At long last, when Sherlock finally spoke, it was probably the most ineloquent thing John had ever heard out of his mouth, but he didn't say so, because he knew its true significance. He knew. John pulled back only to kiss Sherlock's pale forehead, then his full lips, and lastly his beating chest. Ineloquent indeed, but the most profound. 

~

Bonus art from chapter eight 4 u, by the magnificent Lascocks on Tumblr:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you don't know and wanted to, Sherlock is saying "I will tell you everything soon. I'm sorry, I'm frightened." in Spanish during the one bit. Nothing you couldn't pop into Google Translate if you wanted to, but I thought I'd save you the trip. :D


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock was a little surprised John had nothing to say regarding his continued silence, but then he implicitly understood these things much more easily than Sherlock did. As the numbness of shock wore off, warm familiarity took over and he sighed heavily in contentment. John was right - they survived the week, and after a conversation like theirs just now, Sherlock felt as though they could stare down the very universe ending and not bat an eye. Unparalleled optimism unlike any he'd felt before filled him to bursting. God forbid, he may just start being a _positive and cheery_ person if he wasn't careful. He basked in John's attention and slipped a lean hand up to his neck, twisting careful circles into the flesh.

"How's the whiplash?" he asked, unsure how else to move past such a poignant moment between them.

John giggled then, out of happy familiarity rather than actual amusement. Because of course, after such a moment as that, the man would revert to assessing John's physical status over prolonged emotional revelation. For all his eccentricities and volatility, Sherlock was comfortably predictable to him. John didn't mind, though, not in the least.

"Better. Still a bit sore when I turn my head, just here-" He indicated by slowly turning his head at an angle to the right, and winced, pulling back. "But nothing that won't fade in a day or two. Nothing serious." He reached fingers up to trace along the swelled, purpled bridge of Sherlock's nose, barely ghosting over his skin. "What about you?"

"It's fine if I don't move it too much, but it does...sting if I do. Can you tell if it's fractured?" Sherlock winced a bit at the touch, so he caught John's hand in his own and pulled them away, kissing the knuckles. "I must be quite the sight. I haven't really looked at myself since my shower yesterday. My giant nose must be all the more pronounced," he said with a self-deprecating smirk. "Otherwise, perfectly fine. Just a tad sore from a few well-placed fists, but I think it's safe to say I came out on top, all things considered."

"You were...pretty vindictive," John breathed, leaning closer to examine Sherlock's face, frowning in thought at the bruising pattern splashed over that beautiful bone structure. "Luckily, that nose of yours is cartilage. No fracture there. Ethmoid's intact, too, though likely bruised judging by the purpling between your eyes." He grinned. "Leave it to you to be vain over a bruise after narrowly escaping death."

"Vindictive is a mild term for it, but yes," Sherlock replied smugly. "And I don't sound _that_ vain, do I?" He pulled John close and nestled him into the crook of his neck. "All those comments on me being beautiful must be rubbing off on me. Careful, now," he teased, kissing the top of his head. "It's still early, you know. You could sleep again if you wished." John smiled into Sherlock's skin and closed his eyes, nuzzling at the other man's long, slender neck.

"I should get up. Besides, I... have a few things to do. And anyway, I've been an early riser for years. Military does that to you." John stretched against Sherlock in a slow, full arch, yawning deeply and careful of the cuts on his back. They hurt much less, now that Sherlock had properly cleaned and bandaged them.

"Things to do? Such as what? I...had anticipated a day in, especially considering what's happened the past couple days." Sherlock smoothed a hand over the squared silhouette of his partner, looking a bit deflated despite himself. The thoughtful pause in his sentence was curious, too. He pulled up the blankets and settled them tighter around them both in surreptitious suggestion they stay where they were.

"Calm down, I don't need the whole day. Just a few little errands." John quickly kissed the edge of Sherlock's jaw. The little thought that Sherlock Holmes wanted him to stay in bed was indulgent and heart-warming, and he wilted against his partner, curling up like a cat against him. He returned a lazy grin. "But as it won't take me all day, I suppose I could spare a little more leisure time." Sherlock gave a bit of a pout, but acquiesced with a long-suffering sigh.

"Fine." What he'd said the other night was becoming more and more painfully true - Sherlock wanted time to all but stop so he could savour every last second of these intimate times. If his ten-years-ago self could see him as he was now, he'd probably be torn between utter disgust at the sentimentality and raging jealousy and impatience. "Will you need assistance? Speak now or forever hold your peace on the matter; its shelf life only lasts as long as my post-coital sentiment does," he said with amusement lacing his tone.  John laughed quietly and leant up for a sudden nip at the edge of Sherlock's ear.

"Charming, love, but your tell is showing," he breathed lazily into the other man's ear. "Now I'm delightfully aware that all it takes for you to be helpful and compliant is a simple orgasm." He chuckled warmly. "I should have guessed.”

"M'not  _that_  compliant," Sherlock mumbled petulantly. "You're not going to corral me into doing the shopping with you with a quick shag before running out the door, I'll tell you that right now." Not to be outdone, he smirked and returned a nip of his own on John's lip.

 “Alright, I could use a bit of help,” John replied, “I have to secure a few things with regard to my pension at the bank. And, I thought, perhaps afterward we'd stop by for a few new clothes, perhaps?"

"If you're up for running about and shopping now, certainly. But your pension? I don't understand. Austerity measures cutting into your monthly paycheck?" Though the afternoon was shaping up to be fruitful, Sherlock had to admit he preferred John with as few clothes as possible. But, alas, societal norms once again kept him from indulging in certain preferences, like being able to exhume bodies yourself, or being able to hang skin tissue samples from the window to measure UV degradation.  _Silly_ , really.

"You offering to go out and do errands with me? That's almost servitude," John joked, lip plumping and reddening slightly from the previous attention. John tilted his head and mouthed at the other man's chin, lightly scraping his chin with gentle teeth. Becoming serious, he pulled back and pursed his lips just a bit. "Mm, ever since Afghanistan Mum's been bugging me to hammer out my retirement deal. Before I see her again I want to do it, so she'll be at peace. Besides." He averted his gaze in a very brief, shy moment. "I rather like the idea of you spoiling me a tad." Sherlock nodded as John explained his retirement plans, but broke into a full, almost feral smirk at John's admission.

"Best like it more than 'a tad', John. You know well I don't do things halfway - I certainly won't in this regard, either." He bent down and painted a few possessive kisses to John's jaw and neck before pausing in contemplation. "In fact, why bother with your pension? What you get from the Army isn't enough to live on - that's what started this whole thing. I should add you onto my own accounts as a co-signer. Get you an  _actual_  card so you don't have to borrow mine and have any more cases of mistaken identity," he added with a smirk, "Probably should have done it before I left three years ago, honestly, but nothing to be done about it now. That, however, is not something done in an afternoon. In fact, Mycroft will have to take care of it. I...am not allowed full control of my trust fund, due to my...indiscretions in the past. At any rate," he continued in a discomforted rush, "your mother needn't be concerned with your financial situation that way. Write it off however you like so I'm not mentioned, but nonetheless."

"I...what?" The idea and words all came out so fast that John hardly had time to process them, and he grew flustered. "I-I...you know I love you, and I appreciate...everything..." He was half in a daze, and wasn't even sure whether or not he _wanted_ to be arguing this. In truth, if John refused as was his proud personality's gut instinct, Sherlock would in all likelihood just have Mycroft do it behind his back and things would be a lot more subversive and complicated. He sighed and his shoulders slumped, but he was unable to help smiling a little. "Alright. But I still have to get to the bank today - if only make things easier for Mycroft and rearrange things for myself. I do have my own savings, you know." He nudged his face in Sherlock's hair a moment and twirled his finger around a dark, flyaway curl. "And...I love that you don't do things halfway."

"Savings, yes, that you do have. All...what was it last at...sixty thousand pounds? _Adorable_ , John," Sherlock replied with a pat on the cheek. "No need for hemming and hawing - it's a perfectly reasonable thing to do, joining our finances. Long as you don't go buying a few dozen personal jets or the like, _I_   _think we'll be fine_ ," he finished with amusement. "And if you _had_ said no, the answer is yes, I would have done it anyway and just given you your card later. I'll just have Mycroft make you the head on the account instead of him - you won't have to do anything with taxes, don't worry about that. Or anything, really. Just a signature when needed. My and Mycroft's intellect  _together_  isn't enough to tackle the legalities of our family's taxation process."

Sherlock couldn't help but smirk at John's paled features, clearly still taking in the fact he'd shacked up with an heir to money -  _old money,_ at that. Sherlock could see the unbidden question in his eyes, too humble and afraid to ask.

"I don't know the finite number, but rounding up I'd say it's about two hundred million. In mine, that is; Mycroft, being the elder and head of the family, has more." John inhaled so quickly that his own saliva slipped down his windpipe and he ended up choking for several seconds, wheezing helplessly into his arm. Once he'd calmed down, he looked back at Sherlock in mild disbelief and let out a long exhale.

"Even if you _could_ do all that without me being family, you'd really... make me head of...two hundred... million pounds?" He blinked about half a dozen times and swallowed. "I...I don't know what to say. That would be...surreal." He cleared his throat and straightened a bit proudly. "But I _do_ have my own money - sixty- _three_ thousand, thank you very much - and yeah, maybe it's not millions, but I'd still like to make use of the last of what's just mine." He took a breath. "So...perhaps I could fund our trip to Amsterdam?" Sherlock ran hands across John's arms as he wheeled next to him.

"Why are you talking about this like it's theoretical?" Sherlock asked with amusement. "It can and will happen. Mycroft will be happy to pass off the responsibility - as I said, I'm not allowed full access." He rolled over and hung over John, arm bracing himself up so his body weight wouldn't be on John. "That said, sixty thousand gets us quite a trip abroad. By all means, spend yourself into bankruptcy." He dropped down and kissed him, slow and undemanding. " _You_ are my family, John, infinitely moreso than my kin. This is as it should be." John’s chest and stomach fluttered.

"And you are mine," he admitted quietly, before reaching up to return the gentle, lazy kiss. "I just - wow. I'm not dubious, it's just a lot of money. I mean, I've never seen that many zeros on anything in my life." He smiled. "I suppose Mycroft could use the load off. What do you think your mother will say?" he asked contemplatively, mind already flitting to the tasks of the rest of the day as another surge of warmth rushed through him.

"The answer to that heavily depends on how much, if any faith she has left in my decision-making skills and intrinsic character. But she probably knows much about you via Mycroft, and I know he thinks quite highly of you. Ergo, that would be passed onto Mother," Sherlock replied. "So I suppose however low her opinion of me is, she has no reason to doubt you as of yet. I can't think of anything Mycroft might pass on that would be of detriment to your appearance. And, of course, I don't particularly care. She is legally barred from interfering with my trust fund. That's the point of them." John nodded and absently stroked along Sherlock's arms near his own head.

"I'm not worried about what Mycroft says. He owes me a good bloody lot for saving your arse more times than I care to remember," he replied smoothly, eyebrow cocked in a slight arch. "Though, to be fair, you've saved me a few times, as well." Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's teasing, but didn't comment. Stretching under Sherlock, John gingerly elongated his body to be almost as long at his partner's as he pointed his feet and extended his arms over his head. He let out a wide, unattractive yawn and blinked a few times. "After the morning we've had, I do believe I'm going to sleep well tonight."

"Indeed, especially if there's an encore performance later," Sherlock replied smugly, kissing John's jaw and from there moving down his neck and chest so his head was under the blankets. He knew John was nowhere near that now, but a bit of fair warning was in order for the evening. Nonetheless it felt to be a bit of a shame to Sherlock - so much perfect, tanned skin that was all his, having to wait however long until he could return to it. He ran a hand gently up and down a thigh as he continued mouthing lightly at the just-paunchy-enough flesh of John's torso. John's breath briefly caught in his throat before he huffed out a quiet chuckle.

"Jesus Christ, you minx," he breathed before sliding a hand down to card possessively through his lover's curls. He breathed a small, pleasant sigh and curled his back just slightly into Sherlock's mouth, thigh twitching slightly at the salacious hand creeping up it. "I should hope there will be."

Oh, how Sherlock did _love_ feeling John undulate at his attentions. He indulged himself a bit longer, eventually moving his tongue's attention to John's thighs but careful to avoid the inner parts that were so delightfully sensitive. After a bit of that he drifted back up again, laying his head on the other man's solar plexus and his hair only just peeking out from under the blanket. Nice and warm and comfortable. He curled a bit into John, cat-like in his shifting. Sherlock had never been much of one for sleeping or even lazing about in bed - so many things to do or think about - but if _this_ was what he could look forward to for the foreseeable future, he could make an exception.

John couldn’t imagine ever having wanted to get up and leave the warm, inviting sanctuary of Sherlock’s body. The fingers in those ruffled curls began to rub in soothing, circular motion against his scalp. To be honest, he’d never been a lazy person. Always rose early. Considered idle moments rather unnecessary and irritating. That was one reason why he and Sherlock got on so well – the taller man kept him on the move. But if he got to enjoy Sherlock curled up against him, licking and nudging and pawing at him like, for all intents and purposes, an oversized cat, he thought he might be alright with that.

“You’re never going to let me get up if I don’t push you, are you?”

Sherlock gave an innocent-sounding hum and tightened the arm wrapped around John’s hips.

“That’s that your idea of a push, John, you’ve little appreciation for or understanding of my stubbornness.”

The fingers in his hair made his spine shiver pleasantly – given how thick his hair was, actual sensation against his scalp was rare and left it rather sensitive. The lightest tug could feel like full-on scalping to him if one wasn’t careful, but _this_ was just this side of arousing all on its own.

"Please, if I wanted to you'd be slammed against the wall by now. You know that." John smirked and smoothed Sherlock's thick hair back from his forehead. "The difference is, I don't want to. In fact, quite the opposite. But you and I both know that I'm the one of us who's going to take initiative, here." He sighed and stroked his nails lightly down the elegant nape of Sherlock's neck. "Perhaps a few more minutes."

"Hmm, _slammed against the wall_. Enticing," Sherlock replied cheekily, but fell silent as John's fingernails trailed at his skin. This time his whole body was taken in brief seizure and he arched just a bit. "On second thought," he said quickly as he sat up and the blankets pooled around his hips. "Maybe we should get up now. You keep that up and I won't be responsible for what happens to you." He captured the hand teasing him in his own and kissed the knuckles. John blinked at the sudden motion, but straightened to a half-seated position and smirked in surprise.

"Getting a bit hot and bothered, dear?" he teased, pulling himself up to sit up fully. He chuckled, a warm, familiar sound. "Back of the neck a bit sensitive? Hm, I'll remember that for future reference. Perhaps even employ it a bit tonight." He rolled his shoulders back before tossing back the sheets and swinging his legs over the bed. "Alright. Carpe diem." Shaking his head a bit and blinking hard, John stood. Sherlock coughed in embarrassment and stared at the blankets.

"Not like I can help my own neural impulses. Believe me, if I could I would have ages ago." Once recovered, he watched John for a moment - he seemed to be walking fine, between his remaining injuries and their bit of fun just past. Good, one less thing to worry about. His eyes slipped over to the still-empty bathroom and, utilizing John's distraction, jumped out of bed and into the shared room with the intent of taking a shower first. John could take forever and Sherlock just wanted over with. He locked it behind him, smiling victoriously. John rolled his eyes, content to let him shower. To be perfectly honest, the other man could have it. John himself felt fine. His sweat had long since dried and the semen inside him, rather unsanitary as it was, had long since dribbled out. He resolved to clean the bedsheets before laying back down that night to dirty them again, and smirked to himself at the thought.

"Hurry up, then, will you, if you insist on showering!" he called through the bathroom door at his partner, and pulled his clothes on, afterward picking up the morning paper and heading to his chair to browse through it. He was a man of simple pleasures, after all. Sherlock was indeed quick - unlike _some_ people - and within fifteen minutes he was back out again, wearing his customary trousers and button-up, but no suit jacket as of yet. On his way to the living room he peeked in the fridge at the sample of toes he had in the crisper. Still good for a couple more days. He ran fingers along the line of John's shoulders in the chair as he approached.

"Hurried and ready," he offered lowly, smiling down at John. "Unless there's something else you need before we head out?"

John had just gotten to the sports section when Sherlock's fingers had trailed along the back of his shoulders, making him shiver involuntarily and effectively lose his place in an article about the disappointing results of last week's rugby game. He didn't really intend to finish it anyway. He folded the paper neatly and placed it on the table, standing and sticking his hips out to stretch his quads.

"Nope, let's go. Best not belabour it." He smiled, slow and salacious. "If we're out in public, we'll be safe from the temptation." Grabbing his black coat with the leather elbows, John slipped into it and zipped himself up before opening the door for Sherlock. "Out we go."

" _Really_ , John, as if a simple thing like _being in public_ keeps me in line in any other respect," he shot back with a wicked grin and descended the stairs first. It was true, after all. John shouldn't need such a warning, but Sherlock found he didn't much mind reiterating it for the light flush playing on John's neck. Once outside, he hailed a taxi and opened it for his partner. "Where to, then? The bank, I know, but frankly I don't pay enough attention to trivialities like that to remember where specifically." He slipped a nonchalant arm around John's shoulders as they settled into the backseat. John scratched at his hot neck in embarrassment, swallowing and righting himself into a respectable appearance again. He smiled unconsciously at the arm that felt like it so naturally fit along the broad slope of John's shoulders. He chuckled and leaned forward slightly, giving the address to the cabbie. The small car sputtered to life and John leaned back again into Sherlock's touch, settling his shoulder just against the other man's chest.

"It won't take long. Just need to shuffle a few things around, and get some traveller's cheques."

Sherlock nodded whilst staring out the window of the taxi.

"I was thinking of staying at The Grand. It’d be a fair sight better than the last place I stayed when I was in Amsterdam. Granted, a skip would be preferable to that hovel," he mumbled in distaste. "I can't imagine you have a preference, seeing as how you've never been before, yes? And you _did_ mention wanting to be spoiled. So I'd say leave about ten thousand in the account just in case for the reservation and accompanying charges while we're there. Anything beyond that I'll leave to your discretion."

"Much appreciated," John replied, tracing the bursting seams of the seat in front of him with his eyes. He smiled to himself a bit at the thought, and shifted a little against Sherlock, falling into comfortable silence. About seven minutes later, the cab pulled up outside a smallish bank, nice but not overly so, and John set out of the cab, holding the door open for Sherlock behind him. Upon paying the quick cab fare, John strode into the building and stepped up to the empty queue. He glanced at Sherlock a little self-consciously before the man took the hint and rolled his eyes dramatically before swishing away. John cleared his throat and turned to the teller.

"Hallo, I'd like to get a few things done."

Sherlock couldn't help the small, amused smile that broke across his face at John's insistence for privacy, but that didn't mean he had to see it. So he busied himself with beginning a formal list of potential tourist attractions that were actually worth their time in Amsterdam. John enjoyed unique architecture - quite possibly every square metre of the city would impress him, but there were a few places of particular interest he'd probably like. The Blauwbrug should probably go on the list, but Sherlock wasn't sure if he was up to revisiting that particular location as of yet. Locations where one nearly died tended to become less-than-enticing even for tourist reasons. Really, there were all sorts of places Sherlock might be varying degrees of uncomfortable visiting, but that was going to be an issue anywhere they went; Sherlock covered worldly city-centres rather well in his time abroad. And besides, stories like that were part of the point of the trip. Explaining himself. He sighed heavily, suddenly chilled despite his coat and being indoors.

"Of course, sir. And what would you like to get done today?" John smiled at the cheerful teller.

"This is going to sound strange, but forgive my particularity," he opened. "I'd like to have most of the money in my savings account transferred to traveller's cheques."

The sharply dressed man raised an eyebrow. "Ah? Going on a trip, are we?"

"Yes, a big one."

"How lovely. And exactly how much would you like transferred?" John thought a moment.

"Forty-thousand." The teller nodded and clicked away intently at his keyboard.

"And the rest, sir?" John perked up.

"Ah, yes. Um, I'd like to open a checking account."

"And how much would you like to transfer to this new checking account?" How much had Sherlock said?

"Er, ten thousand." The man nodded, and there was more rapid typing.

"You now have thirteen thousand left in your savings account, sir. What would you like me to do with it?" John bit the inside of his cheek, apprehensively casting a glance sideways before nodding.

"Keep it."

At length John returned to Sherlock with a box filled to the brim with thick envelopes, inside which contained forty-thousand pounds in cheques.

"Ready?"

Sherlock turned to address John, but was struck by an...odd expression on his face.

"All too much," he replied, tilting his head with interest. "Everything...satisfactory?" he asked, doing his best not to look too expectant just because of one odd facial expression only Sherlock would likely ever pick up off the other man. He put a hand to the small of John's back and lead him back out to the street to hail a second taxi. His thoughts from earlier were already threatening to make Sherlock dread their trip before it had even begun, but he rolled his shoulders and did his best to shake off the sensation. For all the potential unpleasantness, this was something Sherlock _wanted_ to do and enjoy. He could handle temporary issue with it when the time came.

Startled by the fact that Sherlock could pick up even a shred of apprehension, John quickly checked himself and gave what he hoped was a sure nod. His partner was right, John was a terrible liar. But this wasn't exactly _lying_ , now, was it? Sherlock had told John to use his money at his own discretion. And anyway, they didn't need over fifty-thousand pounds for one trip. He let Sherlock lead him out, unable to do much with such a heavy load in his hands, and slid into the taxi when it came. Opting to settle the large box on the floor at his feet, John slid over to settle his shoulder against Sherlock's, frowning as he noticed the man's were hunched just enough to be abnormal. "Hey. You alright?" he asked, searching Sherlock's face with his own sharp blue eyes. Sherlock jolted from his thoughts.

"Yes, perfectly fine, John." He nodded to the box. "We should probably drop that off at home before going elsewhere, don't you think?" he asked rhetorically, smirk on his face. He told the driver to return to Baker Street and returned his arm to its rightful place around John's shoulders, holding perhaps a bit more tightly than usual.  _All in good time, Sherlock. Everything will be fine._  He  _did_  notice, however, John's eyes occasionally bouncing down to the box between his feet, again with a mild, almost invisible apprehension. Sherlock's piqued interest from earlier greyed into something more like concern, but he decided to investigate it further at a more opportune time...like when John wasn't around. 

John nodded, dimly registering the arm tightening around his shoulders. He tried to come up with a plausible explanation as to Sherlock's slight anxiety, and frowned. They'd just officially secured the money for the trip. He was worried about their trip, then? But he'd expressed his desires to go... Then, it was about what the trip represented. A cleansing of sorts, a patient explanation. A recount of stories, many of which were likely difficult for Sherlock to relive. This thought in mind, John subtly nestled closer against Sherlock's side and remained there for the duration of the ride home

Sherlock didn't move as he felt John shift against him, but did peek over and look at him in his periphery. A short-lived twitch of a smile rose and fell on his face before being replaced by his usual, vaguely haughty expression. Upon arrival home, he let John lead the way into the flat, silent as he mounted the stairs and waited for his partner in the living room. Keeping a normal, disinterested expression, he watched John as he looked about the flat for a suitable place to essentially leave a giant pile of money until they needed it.  John settled for stashing the box of cheques under the bed in their room. He figured that would be safe enough for the fairly short time before they were to leave for their trip, and straightened after tucking it in its hiding place. He turned and brightened at the prospect of a smooth rest of the day.

"Let's go get something that fits me other than jumpers, hm?" He shot Sherlock an amused smirk and took his hand, tugging him back out the door.

Sherlock noted where the box ended up, but didn't argue as John tugged him out the door. It still sat in his gut poorly. John was a terrible liar _and_ he knew it, so it couldn't be of that much import, right? No need for concern or paranoia. None of these thoughts helped as they returned to the sidewalk once again. John had casually led Sherlock back out to the street by the hand, flagging down a cab with his other arm. He gave Sherlock's hand a squeeze before climbing in and tugging him in with him. John opened his mouth to give an address or directions, when he realized he really had no clear idea of where to go. He turned in his seat to Sherlock.

"Erm, where are we going, again?" Sherlock smiled distantly and shook his head.

"Bond Street," he said, loud enough for the cabbie to hear. They took off yet again. "You want to stop off somewhere? You'll get peckish before too long, you know." He looked over at John - easy, reserved smile, completely relaxed. No trace of falsehood or hiding anything anymore. It was definitely something about the box, then. Or maybe a greater reflection of their planned trip? Was it too much? Not enough? Was he just anxious about Sherlock's potential reminiscing too? Sherlock turned back to the window, not waiting for an actual answer to his question due to how distracted he was.

"I'm fine for now. I can go without food for an hour or two, you know," John replied, a small, good-natured smirk adorning his face. It dropped seconds later, however, as John surreptitiously scanned Sherlock's face from the profile. He was certainly bothered about something, and it bothered John that his partner was bothered. He shifted just barely in his seat with discomfort, settling back against the seat and feeling his stomach give an unhappy flip as the cab zipped through the streets.

Equal unease filled Sherlock where he sat. Should he say something? Was there even any point in bringing it up before they left for Amsterdam? John could get upset again and demand an explanation that Sherlock wasn't ready to give. No,  _no_ , John had promised him time, and John was always good as his word. Christ, why was he even anxious about it to begin with? Yes, terrible things had happened to him, but it wasn't as if John would be completely blindsided by them now, after their little episode. He wasn't going to run off at the slightest show of damage in Sherlock - hell, he would have done that  _years_  ago if that was the case. The box was another matter, but he could look into and resolve that himself.

"You've noticed," he said quietly, feeling rather than seeing John turn to look at him. "It's nothing, really. I'm...collating a list of places we should visit while abroad. Some of them, however...I'm not inclined to visit again. I hope you understand." His voice had gone extraordinarily soft. It was true - though not  _all_ of the truth - but enough to ease John's mind in a roundabout way. Immediately calmed at the sound of Sherlock's soft voice, John turned to watch the man next to him with relieved eyes.

"I understand," he replied, matching Sherlock's voice in quietness. The man still hadn't turned his head and John could see every single line under his eye. Cautiously, his hand wound around Sherlock's, lacing short, tan fingers in long, milky ones. "We don't have to go to the ones you really have bad experiences with. That would just make the trip worse for both of us, because I know you'd be suffering. And besides, the real point isn't that we're in Amsterdam, it's that we're in Amsterdam together." Sherlock finally turned to look at John, eyes softening considerably. _Together._

"Maybe...once we talk about it, we can go. But thank you." He tightened his hand fixed around John's and angled down to kiss him. "I...apologise for being so dodgy about it. I'm...I'm not _trying_ to be difficult." The taxi surprised them both when it pulled to a gentle stop along the side of the street. "Enough of my carrying on," he said as he stepped out of the taxi, holding a hand out to John.

"You're not being difficult," John protested as he took the offered hand, pulling himself out of the cab using Sherlock as an anchor. He glanced at the classy and expensive displays in many of the stores' windows, and straightened almost imperceptibly. It was his personal opinion that there was nothing wrong with the way he dressed; his clothes were affordable, durable, and above all, comfortable. But he also wanted to make a good impression on his partner's mother, and more importantly, he wanted to be someone who made his partner proud. "Where...I don't know which ones to check out. I mean, where do we start?"

"Armani's halfway down the block," Sherlock replied easily, nodding off towards it. John clearly felt out of place, shifting about as he was on the sidewalk. He leant down to speak in John's ear. "I've wanted to get you into a well-cut suit for _ages_...even if just to rip it back off you again when I couldn't stand just watching anymore," he purred into his ear. Because it was very true; in the proper clothes for his shape, John's limbs appeared to lengthen considerably. Fitted outfits about his torso, lending his chest just that little extra bit of broadness compared to his slim waist...rapturous. A suit fit all these characteristics to a T, and they just so happened to need one for the immediate future. Happy accident. "You are ten times the man than a dozen of these foppish morons put together - don't ever doubt that. All need and functionality of our excursion aside, this is mostly me being selfish...and perhaps a tiny bit of exhibitionism. Show you off." With that, he slipped an arm around John's and tugged him into a brisk walk.

_That_ certainly halted all thoughts of inadequacy. A violent shudder of heat shot up John’s spine and he swallowed, valiantly fighting to keep the indecent flush off his face and keep himself under control. Not the time, John. But it was true – being in public didn't stop Sherlock Holmes from behaving exactly how he wanted, which was apparently whispering deeply arousing things into his partner's ear.

"Well...alright then," he said, more speaking to himself than Sherlock. His arm gratefully accepted Sherlock’s offer, squeezing him almost imperceptibly tighter against his side as they quickly walked down the street to the store in question. When they stepped inside, however, agitation and determination lit John's expression. "Right,” he nodded, “Okay. Um, suits..." He began to wander over to the racks mounted to the wall, tugging Sherlock along aimlessly.

"John," Sherlock suggested lightly. As he turned, a short, middle-aged man appeared from the back of the store; his eyes shone upon seeing Sherlock. "Sherlock!  _Il_   _mio amico!_ " He inclined his head as the older man approached enthusiastically, extending a hand.

"Good to see you, Vincenzo." He looked to John, a reserved smile on his face, "This is my tailor. Vincenzo, this is-"

"John, yes? Of course. Wonderful to finally meet you," he said, moving to shake John's hand as well. "I follow your blog. Easy to keep up with what Sherlock is doing. Read all about how he ruins the lovely things I make for him." Sherlock rolled his eyes with familiar exasperation. "So what do you need today, Sherlock? Been a while since I last saw you."

"Not for me today, I'm afraid."

"Oh?" Vincenzo turned to John and bowed a bit. "Well then, my good man, what can I do for you?"

"He needs something palatable to..." Sherlock hesitated a moment and shared a look with the tailor, "er, make an appearance at the estate. Dinner, as you can imagine." Greying eyebrows rose and eyes lit with enthusiasm.

"Say no more. Well then,  _signore_ ," Vincenzo said, turning to John once more, "shall we? Have you an idea what you want?" There was a barely-constrained snort of laughter from Sherlock. John glared at the taller man next to him before turning to Vincenzo.

"I, actually, ah...haven't the foggiest," he opened apologetically. "I was wondering if you could lend a hand, let me know what you think might be appropriate?" The elder man nodded sagely.

"Of course, of course. We will find you wonderful things." Without warning he whipped out a tape measure, expertly taking John's measurements right there. His tape snapped shut and he motioned to follow. "I see you are of strong build. Good, that is good," he muttered, more to himself than the others as he strode confidently through the store to seemingly random racks. John followed because he didn't know what else to do, and watched with reserved interest as Vincenzo whipped through the racks with a sharp eye and a quick hand, pulling out suits with tactical precision. Sherlock watched John shuffle after Vincenzo in amusement. He added no suggestions of his own, as the tailor knew well what he was doing. He'd be happy to point out colours he liked and whatnot, but that was for later.

"Try these," Vincenzo said, offering John a neat handful of very expensive-looking suits, before dashing over to pluck up a few dress shirts to pair with them. John blinked and took the load as the man ushered him to high-end dressing rooms at the back. "You tell me what you like, what you don't like, I will look for more."  
  
"Okay," John replied humbly, and stepped into the dressing room. He carefully hung the fine clothing on the mini rack, selecting the first one - dark grey with a white button-down underneath - and changing into it.

Sherlock took up a post leaning against a wall near the dressing rooms, nodding to John as he disappeared inside one. Vincenzo joined his side.

"Dinner, then?" he asked lightly. Sherlock rolled his neck and shifted uncomfortably. The older man smirked and nodded to himself. "I don't know how you thought you could pull that over me. There aren't many reasons you'd go to see _signora_ Holmes."

"I had been hoping," Sherlock replied with a low chuckle.

"Why? Did you think I'd care?" 

Sherlock shook his head negatively.

"I just don't need any  _fussing._ " 

The tailor laughed, the sound hearty and low.

"I am a man of detail and flourish. Fussing is my primary motivation, sorry." That earned him a smirk and a single, silent jolt of amusement, tried though Sherlock did to frown it away. 

John straightened and smoothed out the suit in the mirror, frowning slightly as he examined himself. The last time he'd been shopping for a suit was for his and Mary's wedding. It seemed ages ago now, almost a different person and certainly a different lifetime. John cleared his throat and pushed back the curtain of the dressing room, cautiously stepping out to get a professional's opinion. When John came back out again, Sherlock straightened and walked over, tilting his head in analysis.

"I vote two-button as opposed to three. Different colour, too. Lighter. You're not dark and brooding like me - doesn't fit you," he said, a vague smile on his face. 

John nodded and adjusted his collar, stepping back into the dressing room. Sherlock had said two buttons, not three...what did that even mean? Was there some significant difference? John couldn't see any, but he assumed he was referring to the number of buttons on the suit jacket and worked his way through the items on his rack from there. Lighter...lighter. He picked out a light gray suit this time, two-button as his partner had suggested, and changed into it. He frowned at the white button-down underneath and turned to the rack. Perhaps there was a different one...He chose a light but not bright blue button-down instead, changing into it and buttoning up the gray suit jacket atop it. He tilted his head, letting a small smile settle onto his lips. People appreciated when one's eyes were brought out, didn't they? Well, John knew _something_ of the business. With just a touch of apprehension John stepped out again, smoothing out any creases as he did so.

Sherlock's eyes widened and he visibly straightened as John stepped out again. A true smile spread across his face as he walked forward. It definitely still needed proper fitting - the sleeves were a tad too long as well as wide, and the waist didn't sit right when buttoned, but it was definitely a start. He moved to speak, but was temporarily halted by not knowing just  _what_  to say that didn't sound ridiculously over-sentimental and gushing. Dimly he noted he was flushing a bit.

"This...I like this one," he settled on saying, wincing internally at the ineloquent choice of words. He shied a bit, regarding John with his head tipped down, "but do  _you_  like it? That is what is most important, yes?" He lifted one of John's hands and turned it to inspect the cuffs. "Mm. Needs cufflinks," he said, eyebrows twitching up briefly in anticipation. The thoughtful frown on John's face was replaced by a knowing smirk as he watched Sherlock's quite visible reaction. He nodded slightly.

"I like it," he replied easily. "It's comfortable. I suppose it would be, given the brand." He turned to Vincenzo, holding out his arms a little. "What do you think? I'm guessing there's still a bit more tweaking to do. But I sort of like the colours." He glanced back at the taller man and smiled a little. "And I think my partner does too.” Sherlock instantly flushed to the collar at the usage of the word 'partner', but Vincenzo just laughed at him.

"Seems he does," the tailor said as he sidled up to the other two men. "And yes, there are some alterations to make. Come with me." He waved John along and Sherlock made to follow, but the tailor held an arm out to halt him. "I believe you said 'no fussing'?" he asked lightly.

"Well, I-" 

"Art is not rushed, young man. All in its own time. _Signore_ ," he said, gesturing John towards a room set off to the side. 

Sherlock frowned with dissatisfaction, but decided to busy himself with looking over cufflinks and other accessories while waiting. Vincenzo could get talkative, but he trusted the man had prudence concerning particular topics, even if it was John he was working with.  

Vincenzo let John in first and shut the door behind them. "Nosy as he is, he's always had good taste, so I suppose that's something, eh?" he asked, smiling at John. "Up there, in front of the mirror," he pointed for John to stand.

John chuckled good-naturedly and took Vincenzo's direction, standing up tall on the little platform facing a large, ornate mirror. He remained dutifully still as the short man started taking detailed measurements of his legs and marking the trousers lightly with a tiny piece of chalk. "Have you known him long? Sherlock, I mean?"

"I've known him since he was a boy, but we only became truly acquainted in his twenties. I was his father's tailor for many years. That's how it works in this business. Mycroft moved onto others, but Sherlock saw fit to keep his business with me." At the mention of his father, Vincenzo noticed John's face darken a bit. "So he's already told you?" he asked, more than a little surprised. "Ah, good. Maybe he'll finally forgive himself." John tried to keep the concerned frown off his face, opting for cautious neutrality. 

"Forgive me, but he hasn't told me very much about his family. And I don't know how much he wants me to know. I'm sort of letting him tell me on his own time. Bit by bit, I suppose." He sighed, his shoulders hunching slightly until he remembered he was being fitted for a suit and he straightened again. "I'm sorry, I just have to ask: Is his father...around, anymore?" Vincenzo straightened and winced. 

"Ah, my apologies, John. I had thought...well, as you said, he will tell you in his own time. I would say more, but it isn't my story to tell. However I will answer your question: no, his father died a little over four years ago. Cancer, I was told. In fact I'm the one who told Sherlock - I only found out because I had to close out _signore_ Holmes' accounts. He came in a couple weeks later. It didn't seem as if his brother had informed him. Not surprising, but still sad nonetheless. I think I may have been the only source of news Sherlock ever received about his father over the past ten years or so." The tailor went back to his work with a distracted shake of the head. 

Though he didn't know the whole situation, John lost a bit of respect for Mycroft, of all people. Even if Sherlock had made it clear he did not want contact, his older brother still should have informed him of their father's death. What was that about? Hang on...four years ago. That was a bit before the Fall, before everything happened or possibly even at the start of it. And Sherlock hadn't acted any differently, hadn't said a word. Why would he? He never talked to John about his family, but he thought he'd at least be informed one way or another of such a big event as that. As he stood there with a stressed frown on his face, John couldn't help wondering the true nature of Sherlock's relationship with his father.

"Thank you for telling me, Vincenzo. I won't ask any more."

"I'm sorry you are only getting bits and pieces, but I can tell Sherlock holds you in a special place. He _will_ tell you, I guarantee that. You might have some idea, but you don't fully realize how significant it is you are going to his childhood home and meeting his mother. I haven't seen her since Sherlock was a teenager, but I imagine she hasn't changed all that much. Women in positions of wealth and power such as hers survive by all but transforming to marble. Elegant and unflappable. And if she is indeed the woman I remember, she will like you."

"I... thank you." He wasn't exactly sure what he was thanking the tailor for, but he had never heard a whit about the Holmes family before...and Sherlock complained about _John_ being private. To gain at least a scrap of insight into Sherlock's life apart from John was a non-trivial event. "I knew it was important, I just didn't...realize..." But then, it made sense. He was fairly sure Sherlock had never met someone he tolerated, let alone _liked_ , enough to bring him home to meet his mother. And when one knew nothing of Sherlock's family, it was easy to assume it was because there was nothing to tell. He should have realized. He should have _paid attention_. "I guess he'll tell me what he wants me to know."

"You're very welcome, but I think you know even better than I do once Sherlock truly broaches a topic, it's rather difficult to get him to stop." He snickered a bit at that as he pinned the sides of the jacket to fit John more tightly. "You are good for him, it's obvious alone in his clothes. When he was last in seven or eight months ago, I couldn't believe how thin he'd become when I was refitting him. Haggard, really. He's put on weight since then. But he _looks_ better. Brighter than I've seen, at least as far as I can remember. He was so sullen as a teenager."

"Was he?" John glanced down with interest at Vincenzo, obligingly holding his arms out just a bit for the tailor to fit his waist and shoulders. "I'd always wondered what he was like when he was younger." His face lost a bit of its darkness as he pondered Sherlock in his teens, probably a tall, lanky, gorgeous and brooding young man. Probably didn't follow a single rule. John smiled a little at the thought. Not too different from now, then.

"Not too terribly different. He disappeared for quite a while after finishing secondary school. I didn't see him for nearly five years. I thought at first it was just because he'd been to university, but he was...not right. He's never explained and I never asked. We get along well enough, but I wouldn't say he considers me a confidante. Not like some of my other customers. When he was a boy, though...he was very bright and inquisitive. Always asking questions. First time I met him the family was preparing for the funeral of a distant relative. He wanted to know all about what I did and how I did it. His mother seemed to find it endearing, even though she tried to keep us on-task. He was...six or seven, I think."

John found himself smiling slightly at the thought. But that disappearance...that most certainly did _not_ sit right with him. He didn't know if Sherlock would ever tell him - or consider it too far in the past to even merit telling him - but John had his own theories, none of which he liked in the slightest. "I can imagine that completely," he replied quietly, a touch of warmth in his voice. "He's...he's always been like that, then. That's one of the things I love about him. That mind. That passion for...for life. He's just...sorry. I'm sorry." Vincenzo had come around to look at John from the front, pulling at the lapels and seeing how the jacket sat with the temporary alterations.

"No need to apologise. I'm glad he has someone in his life who appreciates that from him. It has always been true, though a lifetime of troubles have tarnished it to the point many people can't see it anymore." The tailor sat back in reflection for a moment. "When he does finally tell you," he said, "it will probably not seem to be a big deal to you, and you'll wonder why he never told you in the first place. But even Sherlock was young once, and one childish moment has lead him to blame himself unduly for many things. Try to keep that in mind."

John blinked and stared down at him for a moment. Had he heard right? Was he understanding? One moment? He cleared his throat and nodded once, unsure how to feel. At the very least he felt sure now, more than ever, he wanted to know. He wanted to understand Sherlock the way Sherlock had never let anyone understand him before. But also now, more than ever, he knew how imperative it was that he wait for the man to come to him. Really, the man was like a stag. Graceful, beautiful, and highly dangerous when need be, but distrustful. One needed to wait with outstretched hand for him to approach, because when he did it meant he trusted, and John knew he needed to wait for that.

"Very good," the tailor said happily, referring both to John and his jacket. "That should about do it. I can have this ready by...oh, probably the coming Monday. I have a few other orders in." He stepped back and crossed his arms. "Now that I've run out of time and excuses to keep you, is there anything else you'd like to know before you leave?” he asked, his smile deepening the folds in his face. John smiled and checked over himself once in the mirror before turning to the amicable shorter man.

"Just one." He stepped down from the platform and offered a hand for the other man to shake. When they did and he dropped his hand again, John stuck his hands in the smooth pockets that would soon belong to him. "Is he really happier than you've ever seen him?" Vincenzo broke into a grin and gestured for John to turn so he could remove the jacket.

"As an adult, absolutely, but also not since he was just a boy. He is a subtle man; it can be difficult for others to see, but when you've known someone so long, no matter how distantly...Sherlock told me about your blog not long after you two started working together. Once I began following it, I understood what it was that had caused such a shift in him - you, of course. He's never had anyone like you. I can say that with certainty even though I know hardly anything about the kind of man you are. You are the first to have stuck with him both in spite of _and_ because of how he is. Everyone needs someone like that, even him."

"I agree," John replied quietly. And he did. In reality, he could only hope Vincenzo was telling the truth. He didn't know for sure, but he did know that he had stuck with Sherlock...for better, or as had been much more frequently as of late, for worse. John's whole life had practically proven to him that he'd been waiting for Sherlock his entire life, and when he'd found him, he wasn't giving the man up for anything. Didn't believe his lies. Didn't put up with his bullshit. Loved him very nearly from the first day. "It's a pleasure to have met you, Vincenzo. You're a very kind man."

"And the same to you, John. I hope to see you again soon. In the meantime, try to keep him in line, hm?" He patted John amicably on the shoulder and gestured towards the door. "After you, _signore_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yesssss I know Benedict's suits are typically Spencer Hart, but, uh.../shrugs/ Welp.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends!
> 
> Our commission from the lovely msaether on Tumblr is finished! I will post it at the end of the chapter...with great trepidation because I will be publishing this chapter in a public place. Ahahaha. Ha. #surreptitiousporn
> 
> So yes, be advised that said commission is very much NSFW if you are reading this somewhere it is inadvisable. But I suppose you're reading gay fanfic erotica as part of being here, so. Welp.
> 
> Finally, due to both my and my coauthor's schedules, posting will be limited to once a month, but I guarantee it won't be longer than that. Thought I'd be clear and up-front about that. Okay? Okay. 
> 
> -midget

Sherlock looked up at movement in his periphery; John and Vincenzo finally reappeared from the fitting room. He'd settled on a simple pair of cufflinks, oblong in shape with a brushed, lighter coloured grey background and a darker, shiny stripe in the middle. He hadn't bothered with a tie - John appeared to have picked up Sherlock's habit of not wearing any himself, but if he said something, Sherlock would be more than happy to oblige. Briefly he had considered shoes as well, but knew John would probably consider it some kind of line of ridiculousness crossed in spending money on him.

"Done, then? When can it be picked up? By next week, I trust?" he asked as they met at the back of the store again.

John nodded and stepped back into the dressing room to change back into his trousers and jumper. Ah, and all was right in the world again. John was fairly sure he could get used to the feeling of that fine, luxury material against his skin, especially knowing Sherlock had specially bought it for him...well, he was allowed to indulge in a few things in his life, wasn't he? When he stepped out of the dressing room, he looked like John again, but knew he wouldn't mind putting on the suit - perhaps more than a few times - if only for Sherlock. Especially for Sherlock. He stepped back up to his partner and smiled.

"Is that all, then?"

Sherlock hummed and pushed up onto the balls of his feet briefly.

"You should know better than to give me an opportunity like that, John," he said playfully, "but no, nothing more need be done. I suppose your brown loafers will suffice as far as shoes are concerned." He gave John a once-over; eyebrows were pulled together in a vague sense of sympathy, shoulders relaxed, a shade of confusion in his eyes...Vincenzo had definitely said _something,_ but nothing of major importance. Good to know his sense of prudence was alive and well. Whether or not John had immediate questions was yet to be seen, but Sherlock would cross that bridge when he came to it.

"I suppose you're ready to go?" He turned to his tailor. "On the account then, if you would. Cufflinks are on there too, make sure they end up in the package when the clothes are picked up." Vincenzo tilted his head politely in acknowledgement. Sherlock stepped forward and took the tailor's hand again. "Excellent as always. Thank you."

"Of course. Anytime. And a pleasure to meet you," Vincenzo said, nodding to John. John nodded warmly at the short man, giving a friendly and slightly grateful smile. He turned to Sherlock and shrugged a bit apologetically.

"And, because I know you predicted this from the beginning, I've gone and gotten a bit peckish. D'you think we could grab a bite for lunch soon?"

"Right now, if that's what you wish," he replied easily, hand at the small of John's back as they walked out. "There's a high-end Chinese nearby if you're keen on that. I'm not particular." They stepped outside onto the sidewalk - it had become rather warm as the afternoon had continued on without them, but Sherlock didn't bother to remove his coat. He never did. "Thank you for indulging me, by the way," he added, scanning the street for the restaurant he'd mentioned.

At once the tiny bit of tension in John's shoulders relaxed at the hand against him. Sherlock's touch had a way of doing that. It was subtle, almost natural now, the way they fell into step beside each other, the small but intimate touching that neither of them thought twice about. It made John warm and giddy in a way that seemed like a giant overreaction. It was perhaps something insignificant on the whole, yet all those little details were what proved the two were growing into almost one.

"Chinese sounds good to me. Haven't had it in ages, after I got sick eating it too much a couple weeks ago - remember that? Bloody nightmare."

"I'll remember that much longer than you, seeing as how I had to play nursemaid for two days straight," Sherlock shot back easily. He'd never seen John so physically miserable in all the time he'd known him - before, he'd just had the occasional cold or sore throat. "Sometimes I balk at the sheer amount we eat out or get takeaway, but then I remember neither of us can cook to save our lives." He slipped an arm into John's and headed off to the right, spying the entrance a ways down the block and on the other side of the street. John chuckled and glanced down the street over at the restaurant in question, following Sherlock's step to the entrance.

"Perhaps I should pick up a cookbook sometime. Try to actually learn how to make something. My heart would likely thank me sooner rather than later if I started eating something other than takeout."

"All the running we do? I think we're fine. Nothing like a marathon criminal chase across the city to bleed out all those nitrates. Cooking is tedious."

Within a few minutes, Sherlock was waving John into the darkened, cosy establishment, securing a table rather easily despite being mid-afternoon in a busy tourist area.

"Vincenzo seemed to like you - not that he seems to be capable of disliking _anyone_ , particularly if they're keen to buy something from him," Sherlock said with a smirk bending on his lips.

"Mm, he's quite an agreeable man. I liked him very much," John replied as he sat down and picked up a menu. Only when he was scanning through it, seemingly preoccupied and with an excuse not to look at Sherlock did he add, "He did talk about you. Didn't tell me a lot, just a little. Enough." Sherlock nodded and sat back, gaze fixed on his fingers drumming on the table.

"I imagined he would, but I counted on his prudence. May I ask what constituted 'enough' for you?" he asked honestly, but with a small edge of apprehension. This was dangerous territory - the slipperiest slope possible, but his nagging curiosity couldn't help itself but be answered. He prepared himself for any answer - what John considered a minor detail could, in fact, be a big deal to him, after all. John cleared his throat and mentally selected his dish from the menu, carefully setting it down and looking up slowly at Sherlock.

"He told me a bit about your parents. What they were like, where they are now..." He averted his gaze for a split second. Sherlock inwardly bolted every last piece of himself down. Parents. Plural. So, That Topic had been broached, though clearly not in detail. Thank god for that, but still. Too close.

 "And told me a little about what you were like as a child,” John added with a little smile. "But I could have guessed that."

"Contemplation of what I was like as a child is rather pointless, isn't it? Not exactly relevant twenty-plus years out from the era." If John knew where his parents 'were now', that meant he knew about the timing of his father's death. His upper lip twitched minutely in distaste, but wasn't sure if he should call out the elephant in the room.

"I thought you might say that. It's still interesting for me to think about, though. Makes me wonder if we'd have gotten along if we were younger. I think I would have thought you were a bit of a dick. So probably the same as it is now," John joked, though his eyes were apprehensive. Sherlock had grown rigid, and it was not likely because of what John was talking about now. For a few tense moments they just stared at each other, no one saying anything. John was waiting for Sherlock to either speak of it or not, when suddenly the waitress approaching the table broke the stalemate as she asked for their orders. John ordered sweet and sour chicken with rice on the side and a pot of tea, glad for the even minute distraction. Sherlock could see it in John's eyes - expectation. They both saw through the conversation for what it was, but John was steadfastly refusing to open the dialogue. As he continued watching while John ordered, however, Sherlock realized it wasn't so much a demand as it was a patient enticement;  _tell me, I want to know, but only when you're ready for it._  He felt his shoulders relax. The waitress turned to leave.

 "Actually, I...I'd like the three-mushroom stir fry," he said, noting the surprise on John's face. She nodded and left. Sherlock became fascinated with his chopsticks and regular silverware, picking at the edge of a napkin. "So I imagine you were told my father has passed, and that it was while we were living together before," he opened hesitantly, never once looking at John, who for his part had to school his involuntary, shocked expression. This was just one surprise after another. Was Sherlock just eating so he'd have something to stuff in his mouth when he didn't want to talk anymore? John thought that might be something he'd invest in. He nodded.

"Mm, yes. Four years ago, I was told." There was also the manner in which he died to consider, but John wasn't about to dive headfirst into bringing that up.

"A little more than, yes. He apparently died a few days after the resolution of the Reichenbach case. I didn't learn of it until a couple weeks later, however. If you're wondering why I didn't tell you, it's because at the time I thought you would find it as irrelevant as I did, so I didn't bother. Does it...bother you I didn't?" he asked, finally looking up to meet John's eyes. What he just told John wasn't exactly the truth -  _Sherlock_  had decided it was irrelevant, but he knew well John was nowhere near as callous. John met Sherlock's gaze with cautious relief at the man's slow but steady opening up.

"I would have liked to know, yes," he admitted quietly, but his gaze shifted minutely - _I know all about self-preservation tactics. I'm not angry_. The waitress arrived back with the drinks, and John poured himself a cup of steaming dragon eye oolong tea, lifting the unsweetened drink to his lips and taking a sip.

"Might I ask why?" Sherlock took much more solace than he wanted to admit from John's subtle shift in disposition. Sympathetic but not pitying, inquiring without demand, and not becoming frustrated when he wasn't given everything all at once. "I'd never made mention of it before, and the only contact you'd had with my  _family_ ," he said, tone involuntarily harsh, "was Mycroft. Why would you care? We weren't...attached as we are now." John carefully set his warm cup of tea down and folded his hands on the table in front of him.

"Why would I care?" he repeated, running over the question in his head to make sure he'd gotten it right. "Sherlock, it didn't matter if we were shagging or together or if I wasn't speaking to you I was so mad, because you were and are my best friend." He kept his voice soft to dull the edge on his words. "And however much you tell me otherwise, the death of a parent is still a shift in one's life. I know it is." Sherlock twirled his knife blade-down on the table, the contemplative frown on his face softening at John's words. 

"I...I see," he replied quietly. Silence drifted between them for a few beats when Sherlock suddenly jolted. "Wait, you  _know_ it is?" he asked, voice taking on his characteristic 'I've picked up on something interesting' tone. "Does that mean-" he cut himself off, subconsciously appreciating the thin ice he was running headlong onto. As his conscious mind caught up, he dropped his eyes and went quiet again. "Does that mean  _your_  father is..." he let the sentence finish itself.

"Also dead?" John decided to finish, not shying away from it this time. "Yeah." He thought he'd be okay just outright saying it, but a flash of nauseating emotion flushed through his system so quickly that for a moment he wasn't entirely sure of what he was talking about. When his head cleared seconds later, he continued. "Killed in a bar fight a couple years ago. I saw it in the obituaries." He shook his head. "But that's not the point. The point is, I hadn't seen him in years, didn't even know where he was, and I still felt something. So I know all about lying about it to others just so you can keep lying to yourself."

 Sherlock recoiled, sitting back in his chair.

"Fine," he said sharply, lashing out by intuition rather than conscious act, "Yes, I was upset at his death.  _Yes_ , I regret I didn't make reparations before he died. And  _yes,_ it still  _bothers me_  he hardly so much as breathed a word to me beyond the age of nine.  _Are you satisfied?"_ He stood and marched straight out of the restaurant, visibly shaking. A taxi made itself convenient; he flagged it down and all but leapt inside. It wasn't until he'd told the driver to return to Baker Street and the car began moving that he realised just what he'd done. He put a hand to his forehead and grit his teeth. Five minutes into the drive he pulled out his phone and began staring at it, unsure whether to send a text, or wait until John said something himself. He was going to be furious - initiating contact would almost certainly make it worse.

John did nothing for about five minutes. He just sat there, staring at the empty chair across from him. Then, very slowly, he picked up his cup and sipped his tea. After he was finished he poured himself another cup. And another. And another. By the time the waitress had brought the food out, a bit surprised at the decrease in the party, John had finished his pot and he asked, very calmly, if the restaurant served alcohol before dinner. Of course they did, and he ordered one glass of whatever seemed to be the equivalent of scotch. He ate his own plate of chicken slowly, watching Sherlock's lose heat across from him, and when he was finished he asked for two boxes for each entree, one for the mostly finished meal and one for the untouched. John sat back, sipping at his drink and not letting a sound come out of him for fear he would scream.

Twenty minutes later Sherlock was at the door to 221B and John hadn't texted or called. He let himself in, tossed his coat onto the coffee table and flopped into the long couch against the wall. He curled up into a petulant ball against the leather and extricated his phone from inside his jacket. 

_I'm home. -SH_

Five minutes later, when there was no response:

_I'm sorry. -SH_

That done, he curled up again and did something he hadn't done in a very long time - he slipped into his mind palace and imagined all his feelings as boxes of varying color. Slowly, one by one, he picked them up, opened a large, steel door in a neglected corner of his memory map and placed them inside. Once done he retreated to John's room of the mind palace for a while, wishing he could just will himself to be anyone else on the face of the Earth.  

About forty-five minutes from Sherlock's departure, John had drunk two glasses of scotch, pissed once, and reread Sherlock's texts at least seven. There came a point at which the waitress was obligated to inform John that he couldn't occupy the table anymore, that they needed it for other customers and that if he wanted to drink, he could pop over to the bar and sit there. When he at first appeared catatonic in reaction to the information, the waitress took pity on him and gently told him she was sorry, and she'd help him find a cab home. He finally looked up at her in confusion, but allowed her to help him. Five minutes later, the long since cold boxes of food sat in John's lap in the small, dank cab. He was finally alone with his thoughts, forced to face them with no other alternative but to count down the seconds until he reached home. He knew Sherlock might have burst out. He knew he'd been pushing and the man might shove back, but it had still been a shock. It had still hurt. He'd reopened wounds of his own in attempt to help Sherlock heal his, and instead it felt like he'd just smeared salt in them. He shouldn't have opened up. It was a gamble, and it had turned out to be the wrong thing to do. But now he knew that. For the eighth time, he reached down and took out his phone.  
  
 _I know. -JW_

Sherlock had slipped further and further into his mind palace; by the time John's text finally arrived, only the jolt of buzzing in his hand was able to rouse him. He was coming home, then. John would be upset, maybe angry. But Sherlock hadn't meant it, not really. And when it came to reliving his memories of his own life, John could be lost to melancholies not dissimilar to Sherlock's own. Because Sherlock knew, _knew_ beyond a shadow of a doubt it had been worse for his partner. So he'd have to fix it, just like he had needed to just like that night before. It was his fault (always, _always_ his fault), but he could mend the damage, had to (because he couldn't lose this, break yet another happy life). This was different, had to be, John had said so. Manic determination igniting in his gut, he stood in a rush and began casting about the flat, cleaning. Putting things away, organizing his various bits of glass equipment to make room on the table (John really did hate not being able to use it for its intended purpose), stacking the scattered dishes in an orderly fashion for easy cleaning. Hung up his coat. Started making tea. All done more quickly than could be comprehended from a man who could normally barely conjure a reason to shower day to day. And as he abandoned he suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves and began actually doing the dishes, he never heard the key in the lock downstairs, too absorbed in thinking of how else to make up for his transgression. 

The sound of clinking dishes was so foreign to John that a panicked thought flashed through his head that there could be an interloper in the flat. He swallowed down the sickening feeling and slunk up the steps, keeping to the wall. When he turned the knob and pushed open the door, he was terrified and disoriented for a moment, the slight alcohol haze only intensifying the feeling. The flat was...different, somehow. Rearranged. _Cleaned_ , his mind eventually supplied, and he strode forward suddenly, peeking into the kitchen.

"What..." John mumbled. Sherlock was at the sink, washing dishes as if his life depended on it. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock started so violently the plate he was holding shot out of his hand. He only just managed to catch it before it shattered on the floor. Slipping the offending dish back into the water, he straightened and turned to address John.

"Cleaning, I'm cleaning...flat's a disaster," he said, bringing a nervous hand to his curls to scratch at his scalp. Too late he remembered they were still soapy and wet, but he dropped his hand back down to dry it with a rag anyway, a bit of suds just visible in his hair. His shirt, too, had become a splattered mess of water and bits of smeared food and other things painted across him from his harried pace. All at once, it snapped into place, what Sherlock was doing. John's eyes softened and he inhaled, and before he could stop himself he'd charged forward and buried his face in Sherlock's chest, arms wrapping tightly around his lithe midsection.

"I don't want to do this," he mumbled into the stained fabric, voice muffled. In a few seconds he found himself babbling: "I don't want to push you until you're cornered. I won't ask anymore. I won't pry. I don't want to do this, I don't want to open your wounds."

Sherlock caught John more out of reflex than actual intent. While John's words weren't entirely unexpected, his disposition was...ah, he had been drinking. That explained the slight hysteria. He pushed the other man back a bit to look at him. Hurt shone in his eyes, and why wouldn't it? Not only had his sympathy been rebuffed, the conversation hadn't exactly pleasant for him, either. Running off like that when John had compared their fathers' deaths so succinctly was utterly callous. He'd tried to open up, too, and was rejected in one of the worst ways possible.

"What..." Sherlock mumbled, "What I did, it was all reaction, John. I didn't mean to. It's okay. You're just trying to help. I'm sorry for taking off. Are you all right?" he asked, honestly concerned by the behaviour of the man wrapped around him. Sherlock reasserted their embrace and began running slow and uncertain circles with a palm against John's back.

"It hurt," John replied brokenly, holding tight to Sherlock's torso, squeezing his eyes shut as though if he tried really hard, he could immerse himself in Sherlock and shut out the rest of the world. For a few seconds, he earnestly tried. "It hurt for me, and if it hurt for you too I don't want to make it hurt more." The words were simple, ineloquent, but they were the best he could summon in a state of slightly tipsy emotional compromise. If anything, they were exceedingly honest. The bout of honesty had no limits, however, as John was beyond being careful. "I want you to tell me what hurts for you, so I can understand. But if you don't want to, then I understand that too."

Just as Sherlock's outburst in the restaurant had provided a window into his subconscious and past, this one from John said more than any actual explanation of his childhood could offer. Stunted, fearful, explosive - all of these things and more. All explanations of Sherlock’s state of mind and thoughts on the matter evaporated and were replaced solely with concern for John. Sherlock devolved into childish hysterics at the drop of a hat when he didn't get what he wanted - it was an expected part of his personality. But seeing John have a meltdown towards childish sentiment was just  _wrong_. Impossible to watch passively. And to think it was (again,  _always_ ) his fault... 

"I will, I promise I will," he said, voice tight as a hand came up and cradled the back of John's head. "No more tonight, though. I think it's been a bit too much for both of us. You're trying harder for me than anyone else has, and I...I appreciate that beyond measure, John," he said, taking to rocking just a bit where they stood. "And...and I'm so sorry. I'll be fine. You're clearly not, and that's my fault. Of all the ways I could have responded..." he sighed heavily. "Just relax. Please." He didn't know what else to say that could possibly be comforting, so he went with the blunt request and hoped John wouldn't balk at being told what to do. "I love you," he murmured into his partner's hair. 

John collapsed against the taller man, nodding and inhaling deeply. His mouth tasted bitter, the tangy spices from the chicken mixing with the kick of the scotch and forming a disgusting taste. Sherlock smelled like soap with a faint hint of his musky sweat. He'd been working hard to make it up to John...but, "This was supposed to be about you. And, and I went and made it about me, and I shouldn't have, and I'm sorry, and I-" He gasped for breath, a shuddering sound. "No more. No more." There was a pause while he calmed down. "I love you, too."

"You didn't make it about yourself at all. I'm just concerned about you. Like I said, it's fine. Completely fine. No need to apologise." He hadn't seen John so utterly shaken since he'd come home in the wake of Mary's death. His stomach sank at the comparison; to alleviate it, he tightened his hold on John. For however upsetting it was to remember those first few weeks home, it helped that he could show this level of intimacy now without fear of rejection or reprisal. While continuing to sway a bit on the spot, Sherlock's eyes darted about the kitchen before falling upon the sofa.

"Come, sit down," he suggested, tugging John by the waist alongside him. The kettle went off; Sherlock got John situated and returned briefly to the kitchen to make him a cup. Once returned he sat on the coffee table directly across from John and set the mug next to where he sat. John had kept his head hung in Sherlock's absence. The consulting detective reached over and pulled up John's face gently. "Is...there anything I can do for you?" he offered, completely at a loss.  John let Sherlock tilt his head up and looked up at him, the blue in his eyes seeming to run for their watering.

"Paracetamol?" he pleaded. His head really was pounding. It wasn't as though John couldn't hold his liquor, but he was uncharacteristically emotional, and thoughts of Sherlock were swirling around in his head faster than he could comprehend them. He slumped back against the back of the sofa, head hanging slightly, wishing fervently just to curl up in Sherlock and give as much love as he knew he needed.

Sherlock was instantly back on his feet again and headed for the bathroom. Swearing fervently under his breath as he searched, he found the requested painkillers. He stopped only long enough to get a glass of water since the tea was still steeping before he returned to his spot in front of John and handed it to him. John downed three and shook his head. He looked miserable. Sherlock's hand began to drift forward, but he abandoned the thought and moved to sit next to John on the sofa instead. Desperate to do _something_ , he recalled an ancient memory from childhood of his mother; he slid over towards the opposite end and pulled John down by the shoulders so his head was in his lap. Fingers splayed across John's head and began tilling his hair gently.

"It's fine," he mumbled self-consciously, "I...anything you need, John." 

_Christ, I am shit at this._

John's head spun when it was pulled into Sherlock's lap, but he could hardly have complained if he tried. He turned his body so that he was laying on his back, gazing up at Sherlock with a mixed expression of exhaustion and awe. From here, his cheekbones were lit from above and looked even more sharply cut, while his eyes were pale and bright. And those lips...they had the perfect Cupid's bow from this angle. He felt his head swimming with heaviness and his eyelids were drooping at the sinful soothing strokes through his hair. They remained like that for a while, still except for Sherlock's fingers in John's hair.

"I do love you, you know," John said after a while, quiet voice carrying in the silence. "More than anyone. More than myself." Sherlock gave a low hum of acknowledgement.

"The sentiment is returned in its entirety and wholeheartedly, I assure you," he replied. John appeared to be finally calming down. "Are you feeling better?" he asked with trepidation, watching his response carefully. However much John went on about Sherlock's seemingly perfect eyes, he liked how bright John's were. They had a light and life to them Sherlock's own didn't, murky with shifting colour and brooding as they were. The eyes were the only feature on John that Sherlock ever gave much contemplation as a physical attribute. Not that John wasn't a perfectly attractive man - it just didn't really enter into Sherlock's appreciation of him. Physical appearance hardly ever did with anyone Sherlock interacted with; it was too easy to manipulate and improve to deceive others, so Sherlock deemed it superfluous outside the realm of deduction. John blinked slowly and gave a little nod, reaching one heavy arm up to trail his touch underneath Sherlock's chin. Fingertips traced over the line of a sharp jaw, slipping back to just touch the shoreline where ivory skin met waves of dark curls. His fingers curled a just a bit into Sherlock's hair, relishing the pliant softness.

"When I was little I used to dream of a future far...happier, than what I had.” John explained. “Maybe a big house in the suburbs, a wife, kids, a few dogs and cats..." he trailed off, smiling vaguely at something that wasn't there. "Little me would probably be rather confused if I were able to go back and try to explain. I've been wrong on every account, and I couldn't be happier for it." Sherlock's hand caught John's against his head and swallowed it in a fist.

"I...never really had a dream like that," he said softly. "I just wanted to get away from the estate, didn't care where or how. I just wanted out. But when I hit my twenties..." he drifted off, suddenly hesitant. "Well, let's just say I wasn't so much dreaming as I was hallucinating," he finally said, voice a bit rough. "University was perhaps a bit  _too_  liberating for me, I suppose." His expression darkened further. "In all honesty I didn't expect to make it to thirty. And even more than that, I never expected to be happy about it at all." John turned his head in Sherlock's lap, closing his eyes as his cheek rested against a warm thigh. His head had stopped spinning and now just gave a dull throb every now and then. He curled his fingers gently over the top of Sherlock's fist.

"I've never tried...using," he opened hesitantly. "Never even had a lick of alcohol until I was nineteen. All the other boys at secondary school couldn't figure out why their star rugby mate never so much as set foot in a kegger." He paused. "I didn't like it. The taste, I mean," John reflected. "Still don't, really. I was so relieved."

"You're a better man than me for never even trying," Sherlock replied, bringing John's hand down and playing at the other man's fingers with his own. "Harmless curiosity is what got me to try. I'd been smoking for ages by then, but nothing stronger than clove cigarettes. Marijuana is rather boring, LSD and peyote too bizarre...cocaine had just been part of the sampler, not any kind of spiral down, but that was it. The way it makes me think..." he dropped the end of the sentence, knowing John wouldn't approve of his romanticising of addiction. He shook his head. "But regarding your assertion on alcohol...people addicted to a substance don't do it because they  _like_  the item itself. Just the feeling. That's even true of myself - I do miss the _feeling_  of getting high, but I assure you I don't like  _cocaine_  at all. It's a difficult discrepancy to explain to someone who's never experienced it." 

"I...think I understand. Or, at least, I see. The reason I never did that stuff is quite simple, actually. It's no moral thing, like my mother always hoped." John’s fingertips touched Sherlock's, his smaller hand fitting easily into the larger one against it. He frowned a little - not an unhappy expression, just a slightly troubled one. "The thing is, well, I've lived my life on the notion that I can't rely on anyone but myself. So...if I can't trust anyone else in this world, why would I want to put myself in a situation where I couldn't trust my own self either? Then who would be looking out for me?" He sighed, and his eyelids fluttered closed. "Anyway, that's what I grew up thinking." A smirk bent on Sherlock's face.

"Fascinating," he said. "That is much the same creed I've lived by myself, but I never thought of it in that respect. I had such faith in myself I thought I could control it. Egocentrism at its worst. Wish I had thought of it your way. Could have spared myself a lot of trouble." John was so impressive in that way - perfectly self-reliant, yet humble in a way Sherlock was all but physically incapable of being. His hand relinquished John's and spread on his chest instead, pressing in just enough to be intimate as an odd sort of embrace. John's eyelids shut completely at the warm, comforting weight of the hand on his chest. He laid still and let his heart beat up into it, silently letting Sherlock know he was there just as much as Sherlock was in reassuring John. Briefly his thoughts flicked to this easiness between them, these words that flowed when they weren't trying to force them.

"You might have," John said slowly, quietly. "But you wouldn't be who you are now. That's not to say," he quickly added, "that I'm glad for everything that's happened to you." He took Sherlock's wrist in a gentle hand and turned it, smoothing it up the man's milky forearm, fingers running along the elbow crease. "But I just think even the parts of you that you hate, I still can't help but find beautiful." Sherlock's breathing shallowed precipitously and his fingers still in John’s hair came to a paralysed halt.

"How...how do you _do_ that?" he asked, voice cracking a bit. "How do you just... _say_  such poignant things without batting an eye? And really, how do you come to such conclusions in the first place? There's nothing metaphorically or physically attractive about a narcissistic, tactless drug addict, John. Isn't that overwrought romanticism at its worst?" he asked, honestly confused. Words like John's were dangerous - if Sherlock wasn't careful, he might start believing them. Not that John was actively trying to deceive him - he was simply wrong on a basic level, and Sherlock was trying to make him understand. Certainly there were positive aspects to Sherlock's personality (he wasn't that far lost to self-loathing - he  _was_  something of a narcissist after all), but none of the aforementioned were. John's eyes opened then, and he delicately traced along a faint track mark, a remnant from Sherlock's time in Colombia.

"Well, I'm able to say it because I really only believe one of those things you said. Because I don't think you're a drug addict; that recent relapse aside - which I'm not going to say I condone, but I do understand given the situation - you've gone years without using, and that determination doesn't sound like that of a drug addict, or at the very least not a normal one. And then you turn round and say you're narcissistic? Well _that_ can't be right, because just a few minutes ago you confirmed that you love me more than you love yourself. You're not as much of a narcissist as you think, and it's certainly not a dominant quality. At least not anymore. Now, I _do_ agree with you on the tactless bit - but even I can see that you're working on it, that you're trying. So yeah, Sherlock, maybe you used to be a drug addict. And you're a bit full of yourself sometimes. And maybe you have the social grace of a turnip, but you know what? All that just makes you more interesting, because frankly, if you weren't you - and I mean with _all_ this rubbish - you might be what I consider worst of all: boring. And you are certainly not boring."

Sherlock's eyes followed John's hand as he spoke; he hadn't noticed he still had a few track marks left, easily visible for the fact he'd rolled up his sleeves to wash the dishes. His hand covered them self-consciously as John's retreated. He gave one weak breath of half-laughter and hung his head.

"'Course I'm not boring - I spend so much time and effort trying to escape boring things I damn well shouldn't be, either," he said, only mustering the minimum effort to sound teasing. The boxes he'd locked away in his mind earlier began beating against the door insistently, rattling and cracking the lock worn from years of overuse. "I wish I could do this," he continued, staring at his own hand covering the crook of his elbow rather than John's face, "what you're doing. Elucidate all the things that I appreciate in you. That I...love about you. But I can't. I don't know how. The words I come up with don't feel accurate enough." Frustration began to colour his tone, and the hand on his arm tightened a bit. "When you're upset, too. Like now. I don't know what to do. I usually don't care about how the things I say and do affect others - the proverbial bull in the china shop. But when I  _want_  to care, when I try..." The imaginary steel cell was buckling, now, from the increasing force battering at his usual stoic will. He closed his eyes and sighed shakily. John's eyes opened a little wider and he finally shifted, sitting up and twisting his torso so that he could face the other man.

"Sherlock, I don't _want_ you to say things if they don't feel genuine. I would rather you show me in your own way than try to force it in words. I _know_ you love me; that's a fact. I'm not going to suddenly go doubting myself just because you don't say so every minute of every day. I say these things to you because I want to, because I believe them, and frankly because you need to hear them and I can't be positive you've ever heard them before." He sighed and leaned his forehead against the side of Sherlock's temple, briefly closing his eyes. "I'm sorry for getting upset. I know this is hard for you, and I know you didn't mean it. Look, you'll figure out how to help me feel better those times when I'm upset. You're a brilliant man. You will, I know you will. That's just something that comes with us learning how the other works. In the meantime, I promise not to get upset with you about things like this anymore, okay?"

"Don't promise that," Sherlock said, turning to finally look at John. "Don't promise to not get upset, or I won't learn. You can promise not to leave, you can promise that you won't fly off the handle, but don't  _not_ get upset."

He made a face at his terrible choice in formatting that sentence and took a moment to mourn his gap in grammar.

"And you don't have to apologise for all of this - perfectly natural reaction. I ran out in the middle of a meal and rebuked your attempt to help." He held John's eyes for a long moment; they were a bit red from drinking, and appeared inexplicably tired though it was only late afternoon. One last, heavy  _thud_  smashed against his internal constraints, and the door was breached: a tumbling spectrum of boxes meticulously measured to accommodate each emotion, from fleeting whim in tiny cubes to immersing sentiment in great crates spewed forth from it. A veritable avalanche seethed inside him, externalised only by a furrowed brow and lightly quivering lower lip. 

"As for the rest: no, I haven't heard any of what you've told me and...yes, I want to hear it," he continued, voice distant and soft, "And I'll endeavour to find my own way to articulate the same to you, but in the meantime-" he cut himself off to lean in and kiss John, "I default to the blunt and easy fallback method I warned you about." With that, he turned and tipped back to lay out on the sofa, pulling John with him, fists in his jumper. He took just long enough to simply watch John for a brief moment, thumb tracing the arch of an eyebrow, before pulling him in for another, proper kiss. 

~

Bonus art based on chapter 10's smut 4 u by Msaether!

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT NOTE: We are heavily reiterating the trigger warnings tagged on this work for this chapter, as well as next chapter. In particular we are referring to the trigger warning for child abuse, and I would suppose a general one for tripping a psychological trigger at all. We will do so for every future chapter in which this or something else is an instance, rest assured, considering how the narrative progresses in the future.
> 
> As ever, thank you for reading~

John barely had time to grin before he was unceremoniously pulled forward into an intoxicating kiss, knees propped between Sherlock's legs so that his full weight wasn't resting on top of the man. That, however, became exceedingly hard to maintain as he was rather insistently yanked forward into another kiss that he could swear was trying to make him lose his balance. He lost himself in Sherlock's mouth for a moment, losing track of his own tongue in favour of cataloguing the movement of the other man's, and when he pulled back solely to gasp for air he managed:

"Ah, that's right. As I recall, we did make a promise that this morning would merely be a precursor." Sherlock grinned up at John, feeling a little punch-drunk from the cascade inside himself. 

"And it just so happens I'm unable to articulate myself properly," Sherlock replied cheekily. "Happy coincidence." 

He pulled John in again, eyebrows lifting as his chest all but filled with sentiment. So many thoughts and snippets of words to describe them filling his head to the point of bursting, but instead he merely opened the drain valve to clear it, ignoring every last one. John said he didn't need words, and Sherlock didn't have the time or inclination to corral them into coherence. He needed practice with instinct, anyway. Sliding out from under John and standing, he snatched his partner up with him by a forearm. He'd intended to make their way back to their room, but John apparently need a bit more from him right there. As John latched back onto his lips, Sherlock wiggled a hand under his jumper and slid it up his back, hands all but clawing for the sensation of skin under their touch. Bumps against the palm reminded him of John's injuries and he let up, but only just the slightest. Together the two of them began stumbling back towards the kitchen, never once parting entirely. John kicked off his shoes and Sherlock managed to wrest the jumper from John's torso, tossing it off towards their chairs thoughtlessly. So much  _skin_ , all his for the taking. It made him dizzy to think of.

There was a time when John would have blushed at the prompt removal of the protective barricade of clothing, leaving him bare and vulnerable. In fact, he had even more reason to be self-conscious now that his body was adorned with a myriad of bruises across his front and a parallel scattering of cuts along his back. But at no point did he have the urge to cover himself up or hide from the man so clearly appreciating every bit of him, scarred or not. John tugged Sherlock against him again when their bodies lost each other in the struggle to get to the bedroom, shoving his hands up the other man's button-down, having no time for patience to open it properly. He merely pulled it off Sherlock's long, lithe torso in one sweeping move and spread kisses over every inch of newly exposed skin he could, hands firmly attached to those narrow hips.

They managed to get to the kitchen; Sherlock pinned him against a bit of counter and ground against him hard. John's head tipped back in response and Sherlock all but tore into his neck, bracing against the linoleum countertop. But this wouldn't work long, wouldn't give them what they  _really_ wanted. Hands pulled at the fastening on his trousers. Sherlock let them drop and whined into John's neck as hands briefly cupped him. Tiptoed feet danced out from the pool of fabric on the floor, tugging John with him. 

"Not here, come on." 

He wanted John spread so he could have any inch of skin he wanted. He wasn't even entirely sure it was legitimate sex he wanted, either - his compulsion was to touch, prod, taste the man wrapped around him anywhere and everywhere and just  _watch_. See such a perfect marvel of a man utterly melt because of  _him_  and  _only him_. 

John heard a feral sound cut through the air, and it took him a moment in his state to realize it had come from him. He let Sherlock pull him into the bedroom, spinning and catching him in a full, wet kiss. One hand remained cupping his cheek while the other fumbled down at the clasp of his own trousers, clumsily pushing them down once he got them open. For a long few moments they weren't really even kissing anymore, John merely panting into Sherlock's mouth as he struggled with his clothing. Soon the two of them were just in their pants. John took the fleeting opportunity of the soft material to lasciviously rut his body up against Sherlock's, letting out a pitched sigh into his mouth at the ability to _feel_ every inch of him. His hands slipped to the back of Sherlock's neck, pulling him forward as John drifted backward onto the bed. Sherlock managed a muffled grunt of concern as John tipped back onto the bed, but when the other man didn't finch or really give any notion of discomfort, he let it go. John shuffled up the mattress and Sherlock followed along on all fours. Hands urged at the back of his neck, but Sherlock remained where he was looming over his partner. And he just sat there, staring for a couple solid minutes, expression slowly forming into a downright predatory smile. John began to shift under him, clearly torn between confusion and rising lust sparked by the continued manufacturing of anticipation. Sherlock's hands in the sheets tightened into strangling fists; slowly he dropped down to take a nipple in his teeth, applying just enough pressure to add an edge to it.

So this was what it was to be loved by Sherlock Holmes. The anticipation, the admiration, the agony. The intimacy whose intensity would burn if it was not so craved. John kept Sherlock's gaze for the entire stretching hours that passed between the time the other man smiled at him and the time he lowered that smile to lay it into John's skin. He saw his vision fizzle out more than he felt his eyes rolling back in his head, because his senses were busy, full of Sherlock. He moaned, not because he had to or because he was putting on a show; it was a reactionary sound. Sherlock always seemed to know how to pull those out of him. He was breathing deeply, and at each inhale his chest pressed up into his partner's mouth. He welcomed it. One set of fingers thrust themselves through a thick forest of dark curls, while the other set splayed out wide against a long, white plane along which there ran a shock of shifting spine.

Sherlock kept it up for a bit, teasing at the skin until it threatened to become raw when he switched to the other side. The revamped sensation across unmarred flesh made John arch underneath him. The hand on his back at first drifted back and forth smoothly before becoming clawed and finally began to paw insistently. Never turning aside from his task, he leant his weight on one hand so the other could palm John at an achingly slow pace. Just enough to even him out again. Sherlock was inwardly a bit surprised at how easily he could read when John was getting too much or too little - it hadn't been something he'd actively been measuring before now. But then John liked to talk about how in tune they were with each other. That was probably it. 

Once John had calmed down a little, Sherlock sat up, hips rutted against his as he considered his next move, hands drifting up and down John's thighs behind him as he pondered. Decision made, he got off him entirely and nudged him to roll over. He did, and when Sherlock settled back in atop John’s hips he bent down to whisper in his ear.

"No cheating, now. Only I'm allowed to get you off," he said, recalling their first night together and how John had rut into the mattress. With that he began pressing very tentative kisses down his back, deftly working his way amongst the cuts. He swiped his tongue across the pads of two fingers and also began playing at John's perineum, as well. He did so like that, after all. John shuddered at Sherlock's words, but he still growled as if in challenge. Nevertheless he obeyed for the time being, and kept dutifully still even as the other man stroked his perineum. 

However as Sherlock continued, it sent him into heaving fits and his thighs twitched something awful at not being able to shift. John couldn't see Sherlock's face like this. He had no semblance of control or ability to anticipate what was going to happen. He was forced to trust - which wasn't that hard to do with Sherlock, but nonetheless. He tried to keep calm as he felt Sherlock's lips trail down his spine, arching just enough to be encouraging. Tension began to pull on John noticeably, causing Sherlock to pause. His lover was twitching and buckling under Sherlock, but it didn't seem entirely pleasurable for him. His arching was an attempt at being enticing, but felt more put-upon than anything else. Slowly he backed off and turned John over again.

"Everything alright?" he asked, stroking John slowly again in case that was the only real issue. Was it his back? He didn't seem pained...maybe this was just something he didn't prefer. It  _was_  a bit heavy of a power play...Whatever it was, Sherlock wanted to know in case he needed to stop - at the very least, it wouldn't do  _him_  any good if John wasn't getting off on it. That was kind of the point. 

"Just a little...much," John panted, brows knit in an apologetic attempt to calm down. "Be patient with me," he pleaded, an utter mess of sweat and slight trembling. "Please, I can learn. The trust thing. I can learn." 

The truth was John didn't mind being told when and when not to come. He didn't mind letting someone else get him off, and he rather liked being taken care of. It was somewhat of a relief. But not being able to see what was going on felt too vulnerable. It was scary, and though John would never say it out loud, it reminded him of the times his father would come home drunk and blindside him. But he could learn, just as Sherlock could learn other things. He could learn to give up control. Sherlock blinked in surprise at John's flushed countenance. He searched his partner's eyes for a reason and saw real fear, tried though John did to hide it. Sherlock's eyebrows lifted in concerned sympathy and he laid a hand on John's chest. 

"It's fine, I don't mind at all. It's not about patience." 

Outright begging was a frightening thing to see in John - Sherlock was just trying to place  _how_  it had happened. It hadn't happened until he'd turned over, and John had mentioned trust...not being able to see Sherlock, then. Not being able to watch him properly. Why would that matter? It's not as if Sherlock had any intention of- 

"Oh.  _Oh._ " 

 _Why_  hadn't he considered that earlier? Stupid,  _stupid._ All the seemingly magical insight and perception in the world and he couldn't see childhood trauma manifesting in his lap. His knee-jerk reaction was to back off entirely, but he reined the instinct in and stayed where he was. Patience was indeed key, but not for John. 

"I'm sure you can, John," he said slowly, "And I know you  _do_ trust me. But...we've both had a rather trying day. Just as you said you didn't want to make me feel cornered, I won't do it to you, either. Maybe another time we'll try, when you see it coming. I wasn't thinking, and I'm sorry." Inwardly he was more than a little shocked at how well he'd handled that. Bracing with one forearm on the mattress and cupping John's face with the other, he dropped a few light, reassuring kisses across his face. "We'll do something else. It's fine, I swear." 

John had had no idea how Sherlock was going to handle it. He wasn't trying to be dramatic, or even make a scene; he had wanted to let Sherlock have his way with him, that had been the intent from the beginning...and yet somewhere in the middle his trigger gave and now it was a mess. John was a mess. Yet again. Privately he wanted to make up to Sherlock for how many times now the man had seen him a mess. It really wasn't fair. The times he lost it were few and far between, so that Sherlock was blindsided when it did happen and never quite got enough trials close enough together to figure out how to deal with it. And John didn't exactly know how to remedy that, because part of him wanted to help Sherlock learn but the other part of him wanted to lock himself safely away so that the other would never _need_ to learn. After all, this wasn't about him. He was supposed to be the rock, the strong one, the protector. He didn't bother trying to hide his shame, blinking tiredly up at Sherlock. 

"Don't apologize. You didn't know," he said. He paused a moment, regarding the man above him. In one instant they'd flipped roles, John being the one who didn't know how to handle emotions and Sherlock dutifully slipping into the one who was calm, understanding. He had never been gladder for their ability to sense each other. "Thank you."

"Of course, love," Sherlock replied. Quickly he tried to come up with his next move; to assist, he considered what John would do if their situations were reversed. Despite how well he was doing on his back, Sherlock didn't think John was quite ready to graduate to the other man's body weight on top of him, so he pulled John up into a seated position. Sherlock slipped his arms around his partner's neck and laid down himself. John had begun to panic because he didn't feel like he had control, so, logically, Sherlock should give it back to him in spades. It didn't seem to help, at first - John's shaking didn't abate, but Sherlock chalked it up to shame compounding everything else. He temporarily abandoned any thought of picking up on sex again and put his hands over John's above his shoulders. 

"You aren't being overwrought, or needy, or difficult in the least, John. It's a legitimate issue that needs to be taken seriously," he said, his natural pragmatism colouring his tone, "Not that it's a handicap, or anything like that - just something to be kept in mind. I meant it when I agreed that you can learn." His hands began moving soothingly up and down John's forearms above him. "It's a simple behaviour - they are learned and rewritten all the time. This is one you had no control over learning. Pure survival instinct - it makes you faster, smarter, cleverer. It's not something so much to be unlearned as it is properly applied. Sometimes, in our job, you need that sort of instinct. Now, you don't. And we'll work that out _together._  Because  _there's nothing wrong with you."_

The last part felt redundant, but Sherlock added it in for good measure - because sentiment, right?

"You...when did you get so good at this?" John couldn't help but ask. He hadn't meant to smile - it wasn't appropriate, given the situation, was it? - but it happened anyway, a small expression that managed to be reassured and reassuring at the same time. He let out one last shuddering sigh before sinking back down into Sherlock's lithe body, pressing the sincerest of thank you kisses he'd ever given. He slowly worked his mouth against Sherlock's and parted his lips slightly to show that he wasn't averse to passion, that this had really just been a fluke, and he wanted to forget about it with the other's blessing and move on. Somewhere in his subconscious, he wanted to try it again, slower next time and with more warning, but he did. He had said he wanted to learn, and he supposed this was the beginning of his education.

John's renewed enthusiasm in his kiss told Sherlock everything he needed to know. He took John's invitation gladly and deepened their kiss. His hands left John's forearms and took his hips, pulling them close as he rutted up, the movement slow and purposeful. Orgasm was fantastic and all, but a small piece of him just wished he could just remain at this level indefinitely, when every sense was heightened but still controllable. Pleasurable but not consuming. Here, it was the most placid between the two of them, and the happiest. They were able to give and take from one another freely and have enough of their minds left to them to appreciate it fully. This time, at least, he'd get something closer to his fill. Starting over also meant, at least to Sherlock, taking it slow, letting John re-acclimate. Let him call the shots. Sure, it meant Sherlock wouldn't get to pull John apart piece by piece with his mouth, but that was clearly going to take time to achieve and he was in no rush.

At once John was glad they had ended up where they were. They always seemed to end up in the right place. Before the Fall, it had been in their chairs across from each other after a fight. After Sherlock's return, it had been near each other, always near, never once speaking of it but never once needing to. Now, it seemed to be in this bed. Not that John minded. They hadn't just moaned pleas of climax, they'd bantered about errands. They hadn't just come hard and fast, they'd slept against each other afterwards. John sighed deeply into the kiss, tilting his head to better the angle and slowly rubbing not only their dicks but their entire bodies together, knowing it was exactly this that both of them needed. They hadn't just had sex in this bed, they'd forged a relationship.

Sherlock's eyes rolled up in his head as John dropped for another long drag between them. Years of practice was behind each perfect roll of those hips - years and skill Sherlock didn't have. He imagined he was doing pretty well for the half-dozen times he could claim, but John's surgical precision was something to be marvelled. It was a bit lazy to his mind, but Sherlock was relatively sure he'd be fine with bottoming the rest of his life, letting John take him and shine in one of the few arenas he truly had more time and skill invested in. His partner having taken up most of the effort pressing into him, Sherlock cradled John's skull in one hand and latched onto the shell of John's ear with his teeth. 

"Just a bit harder  _mi amor_ , I want more of you," he said, needing to concentrate to keep his tone soft and level. John needed quiet and sentimental, no cutting demands. But Sherlock  _did_  rather enjoy it a bit rougher. He liked a fight, a challenge. But this shouldn't be about him right now. At least he'd asked nicely?

The little whispering in his ear was all it took for John to shudder against Sherlock's body - the Spanish would always be a turn-on, John knew it, and likely Sherlock did too, which was why he slipped it in now and again just to remind John that he knew. He pressed his face into the damp crook of Sherlock's neck, not biting (yet), just pressing hard enough to assure the other that _more_ was what he planned to give. It was all the better; this way, Sherlock couldn't see John's expression, didn't know that his eyes had already darkened and hazed over and the tiny veins just at the pulse point in his neck had already begun to show. Of course, he figured it out seconds later, but only after John had slammed against Sherlock in another long, practised grind, the kind to take both parties' breath away. This time, as John's mouth met Sherlock's neck, he did bite - hard.

Sherlock nearly took the tip of John's ear off at his two-front attack. His breath left him in a choked cry, pressed against the side of John's head. The teeth at his skin sent fire up his neck and down his arm. 

"Is that what you want, then?" he panted, John still latched to and all but gnawing on him. He caught John's ear again with his teeth and pulled hard at it to let up off his neck. He nipped hard along John's five 'o clock shadow as he came up before capturing his lower lip hard and in a tight enough pinch to make it bleed. Immediately he followed up with light suckling as his own kind of apology. 

"Christ, you fucking  _beast_ ," he wheezed with delight, taking the hair at the back of John's head in a yanking fist and leaping back up into his mouth. His fingers slipped underneath the waistband of John's pants as they rocked ruthlessly together and dug in shamelessly with fingernails into John’s just-ample-enough arse. 

"It's in there, I know it is," Sherlock said in something close to a shout, "a complete animal. Show it to me. I want it, John. I'm not afraid of it and you shouldn't be either." He returned a bite of his own on John's pectoral, just on the lower edge of his scar. " _Dámelo, ahora._ " If that didn't send John's reptilian brain into the stratosphere, Sherlock didn't know what would.

John's almost black eyes shot open and slowly narrowed to slits. He pulled back from Sherlock with a self-control that should have been applauded, because he was crackling dangerously on the edge of devouring Sherlock right there. He'd tasted blood, real blood, his _own_ blood, wet and rich and metallic against his tongue. He stared down at the other man for a few tense moments, just dipping out his tongue to lap up the little drops of red on his lip that had barely seeped out of the flesh wound. He opened his mouth to say something at the same time his brain decided to shift gears from the conscious to the subconscious, and instead of any words - which would have been wholly ineffective at the moment, anyway - a sound like a snarl unfurled from his tongue and before Sherlock could blink his wrists were pinned above his head with one clawed hand. John didn't need two hands to take off pants - he hardly needed one - and when he was this motivated, at least one pair was going to rip anyway. In this case it was Sherlock's, and when the last bit of offending material was off John slipped his knees beneath Sherlock's thighs and jerked up, spreading him wantonly. He took this opportunity to grind hard against the other man again, not giving one whit about chafing. Sherlock's head tipped back and his spine arched. 

"Fucking hell  _yes, John,_ " he cried, wrapping his legs around John's hips. He had to admit, for pretty much objectifying himself, it felt pretty damned good. He could barely see straight he was so turned on by the mania contained in the man above and around him. He caught John by his cut lip again and bit down on purpose - John responded by nearly choking him with his invading tongue and clutching his hand around Sherlock's dick just a shade too hard. It was kind of like drowning; Sherlock had nearly done so on a number of occasions while he'd been away. However instead of water enveloping him and stealing his breath, it was skin and taut muscle and teeth, all being torn away as opposed to silent, slow leaching. And warm, so much warmer. That was what really made the difference, the warmth; it meant someone else was there with you, doing it to you because you  _let_  them. Because he could trust however far on the edge of the precipice he was taken, he could always come back, and could enjoy the dizzying sensation of oxygen flooding his system once again. 

"No more foreplay. Fuck me," he demanded, glaring back with a maniacal twist on his own lips. "Whatever you want, however you want. Just don't stop."

The magic words at last uttered, John gave up all pretence and lifted his hips just enough to be out of Sherlock's reach. Rabid abandon drove John to serve himself lube without reserve; he slathered Sherlock thick with it and drove his fingers in deep, however briefly. He slicked himself up, hoping it combined with the unholy amount of precome dripping out of him would be enough. He had a distinct feeling Sherlock didn't care. That thought pushed him to finally shove himself inside, without wait or warning. A choked growling sound fought its way up John's throat as he held still and let his partner adjust, that action the least he could do after snaring him like prey. In the short interim and in the cloud of John's hazy, feral mind, he remembered something; a remnant from his civil mind, a doctor's note. Sherlock had said John could have him _however_ he wanted...That decided it. In the next minute John had scooped up Sherlock easily, who was still writhing like a stuck animal, and hoisted him up, forcing the man to sit down on him. He pulled Sherlock's long, alluring legs around his waist and, two sets of nails clawing underneath his arse, lifted the man up and promptly slammed him against the wall.

Sherlock had known it would hurt, but nothing quite like this. John speared him so relentlessly he felt as though he was being split in half, but he forced himself to breathe deep and relax as much as possible. It was impossible to comprehend how much tighter it was without the usual amount preparation - John felt twice his actual length and girth at this difference. Dimly he registered being sat up; Sherlock pitched into John's chest, arms weakly flailing for purchase as he slid to the hilt around his partner. It didn't last long before he was pinned back against the headboard. He let out one massive sigh to release as much tension as humanly possible and prepare himself for the fucking of likely a lifetime. 

"John," he wailed to get his attention, fingers scratching without a care at John's shoulders. "Fuck me like your girlfriends would never let you," he growled, locking his ankles around John. "Make me scream loud enough so they can hear _me_ , know you _chose me_. Go... _go_ ," he hissed, unable to wait for movement much longer. John let out one threatening, heavy breath of air, pulling together enough of his scattered brain to dig his claws (for they had stopped being hands a while ago) into the flesh around Sherlock's narrow hips and lean up to nudge his mouth against the other man's ear. 

"Jesus _fuck_ , I am going to wreck you," he whispered, and suddenly there was movement. Vicious, unrestrained movement, and John was biting so hard into Sherlock's ear he was afraid he'd tear half of it off. So he pulled back and settled for sinking his teeth into the sensitive patch of skin just behind it, pinning Sherlock's hips against the wall and driving up into him with a primality previously unseen in John. He wasn't trying to tease. He wasn't trying to be sophisticated about it. He wanted rough, animalistic pleasure and he wanted it _now_ , and he was ready to promise the sky would be falling if he didn't get it. Some part of his decent, human mind had certainly been paying attention, though, because the way John was slamming up into Sherlock was the perfect angle to scrape against his prostate.

The bed was thudding unapologetically against the wall in time with John's brutal thrusts. They weren't quick, small ones as Sherlock expected; John moved in and out of him with huge range of movement, purposeful but by no means measured. Each one felt as though he was pushing further and further up into Sherlock's entire body, John seemingly intent on filling the other man with himself to every last cubic centimetre. His back would be screaming later, and he likely wouldn't be able to walk the rest of the day and into tomorrow, but Sherlock couldn't care less. Completely overwhelmed, the only response Sherlock could give was the occasional belted wail and, of course, rocking back in time with him. This wasn't just sex anymore in Sherlock's mind, it was more like...being  _bred._   _That_  thought struck him square in the chest with a base satisfaction he honestly couldn't believe from himself. He wouldn't need long, now. Hopefully John wasn't far behind, or better, ahead of him. Sherlock wasn't sure he had the wherewithal to accommodate this level of intensity beyond orgasm. He pulled tufts of John's hair in his left hand hard enough to scrape his scalp and threaten pulling out the hair entirely, and his right took his cock, yanking hard to keep with the overall tone. Another hand clapped over his own, tight to the point of crushing on his knuckles and urging him to go faster. 

"You might be tearing me apart, but just remember it's because I  _let_  you,  _love_ ," he hissed at John, smiling with teeth to drive the other man just that little bit crazier and carry him over. With that, Sherlock tipped his head back and let himself sink into what was most likely the final few moments of rhythm they had left, jaw hanging open in shameless lasciviousness. 

Sherlock's words made John bristle with aggressive want and he began to shake. He reached up the hand that wasn't assisting Sherlock between their stomachs and thrust it behind Sherlock's head, fingers cupping the back of his head and curling tightly in his thick hair. He yanked Sherlock's head forward against his and his pace grew a bit faster, a bit more erratic. His upper lip curled up in a wolfish smile as he trapped Sherlock's head between his fingers and his own forehead, forcing them to lock gazes.

"You did let me," he panted, "You let me make you _mine._ And _fuck,_ it feels so good..." He pressed forward and smothered Sherlock in a bruising kiss before the other could let out another sound, nails digging into the back of his head, before John was trembling and shoving himself up one last time before he burst, biting down hard on Sherlock's lip and screaming down his throat.

Sherlock's assumption two nights previous was indeed correct - having John come before him while still inside was an entire universe separate from the other way round. Having to watch John's wild eyes, hear him sound so _dangerous_  was the thrill of a lifetime. His injured face seared as John pulled them together in his climax, but amongst everything else going on it became just one more sensation on a pile now too great for Sherlock to comprehend. John relinquished Sherlock's mouth just soon enough for his jaw to drop off its hinges and his gut to bottom out entirely. The back of his head thudded hard against the wall behind him and his hips bucked on John erratically as he came, eyes screwed shut. The vacuum of sensation left behind post-orgasm left him a bit numb to the world around him, but for one thing: 

"Out," he panted, head lolled back. "John, I...too much...need you out. S'okay." He tasted iron - oh, right. His lip. No matter. John was probably going to have to peel him off the wall to begin with - there was little chance he'd be leaving the flat tomorrow. "Jesus fucking  _Christ."_

John honestly wanted to curl up and drop off into oblivion right there, but Sherlock's words cut through the foggy haze like knives. His eyes popped open and, beyond words, he grunted in acknowledgement and lifted Sherlock off the wall. The man's body pitched forward and draped heavily onto his torso. John huffed out a half-laugh in the ridiculous struggle to keep his wobbling knees steady while balancing Sherlock's dead weight on his chest, but soon enough he'd pulled out as gently as possible and laid the man down on his back. John himself rolled onto his side next to him, keeping off his back for the moment as Sherlock's clawing and scratching had opened one or two places in his cuts and made them bleed a bit. 

" _That_ is going to be playing through my head for at least the next few days," he panted once he'd got some semblance of breath back, and reached out a hand to smooth a gentle touch this time over Sherlock's arm to get his attention. "You okay?" he asked softly. "Can you walk? Want me to clean you up?" Sherlock would have held up a hand in gesture to wait a moment while he caught his breath, but he didn't have the strength to at the moment. 

"Yes. No. And in a minute. I'd...like to stew in the absolute filthiness of all that for a few more minutes," he said, responding to each of John's questions in order. A wide, giddy smile opened his features, though his eyes were still clouded. "My face feels like it's two sizes too big for my skull. Fantastic." He licked at his lower lip (moving his face at all  _ached,_ apparently) - John had done a worse number on his than vice versa. "What about you?" he managed to turn his head towards John. "I'd offer to patch you back up if you need it, but..." A weak waggle of eyebrows was all he could manage for now. He closed his eyes in contentment. " _Fuck._ " 

John grinned at Sherlock's words and slapped a hand over his face, nearly hitting himself in the eye in the process. 

"Jesus." 

Testing his back out by arching it one vertebra at a time, he found it stung to twist it, something he'd have to be careful of in the coming days. He watched Sherlock's face for a while, utterly sated and content to just lie there forever and never get up. He craned his neck to get a glimpse of the damage wrought, and found his back bloody but not gushing. 

"Leave it." His head dropped back against the pillow with a definitive thump. "I want to remember." Stamina slowly being returned to him, Sherlock rolled over a bit so he didn't have to crane his neck. 

"That went remarkably well for a bit of a false start," he quipped, bringing a hand up to thumb John's lower lip. "I never would have anticipated handing the reins back over to be taken  _quite_  that far." John's face darkened a bit, and Sherlock pulled closer as he attempted to backtrack. "No, it was fine,  _perfect,_ John. It's just...that was something I didn't even know I wanted. Or you, it seems." He kissed the cut on his partner's lower lip gently. "Your back is fine, but...are  _you_  okay?" he asked with trepidation. It seemed appropriate to talk about now, after everything, with clear minds; however he wasn't sure if John was open to discussion on the matter again. He'd hate to end up being awkward and not talking again after such a huge success. This day seemed destined to be composed of only emotional peaks and valleys. 

Ah. So they were going to bring that up again. Whether it was fortunate or not, John felt too drained and scooped out and frankly _comfortable_ to gather the energy to shy away from topics such as this, and inwardly he smiled. Pillow talk with Sherlock Holmes. He could have never imagined such a thing. 

"Yeah. 'M okay." He hesitated, then scooted a bit closer on his side towards the other form on the bed, leaving just enough space for the both of them to breathe comfortably and cool down. "Wasn't your fault. Before," he said quietly. "You didn't know. But I..." A small smile, an embarrassed flush and a downward glance. "I'd like to try it again, perhaps. When we're both not incapacitated." Sherlock nodded sagely, running a comforting thumb over John's rounded cheekbone. 

"Absolutely. Whenever you like." John had grown incredibly self-conscious again and Sherlock, still recovering from emotional overflow, threw caution to the wind and closed the distance between them to hold John properly. 

"I know this sort of thing is something I can't really repair myself, but...just, uh, know that I love you and...and you're always, um...safe with me?" he said, ending on a questioning lilt to denote his utter lack of surety in what he was doing. "Is that just painfully redundant? I'm sorry," he corrected himself, words rushed and self-conscious. He didn't want John to believe Sherlock thought him weak or something like that - no, that was unlikely, the last week alone proved how willing Sherlock was to defer to John's greater bravery. John found himself smiling into Sherlock's neck. He forsook his stomach bruises and wound his arms around Sherlock's torso to hold himself in place, cradled against the other man; warm and yes, safe. 

"It's not redundant," he replied, voice soft and, for the first real time in hours, happy. "Well, not painfully so. I like to hear it. It's nice to be reminded." He pulled back enough to watch Sherlock watch him. John ran his eyes over Sherlock's face and his brow creased a bit. "You need to ice that face," he murmured, kissing the other man as lightly as possible, the twin cuts on their lips brushing against each other. "Sherlock...?" John pulled back once more to look up at the man with honest, imploring eyes. "Are _you_ okay?" Sherlock felt his pulse quicken, understanding instinctively what John was asking about though the topic hadn't been touched. 

"Yes," came his answer after a long silence. "In a way, what happened back at the restaurant is positive in itself; I never would have had an outburst of admittance like that to anyone else. I also regretted running off the moment I realised what I'd done in the taxi." His eyes met John's hesitantly. "Again, I apologise for that." He dropped his gaze to stare at John's collarbone. "And yes, everything I said was true," he finished very quietly. Remaining intimacy warred with his natural compulsion to push away, close up. It came to a battle of attrition that left him exactly where he was, unable to envelop himself more in John or completely roll aside. 

John nodded once, instantly seeing the internal battle in the flashes of Sherlock's eyes and the hesitance in his countenance. Until now, it had been his sort-of policy to stay firmly planted where he was and let Sherlock make the steps to him; but now, watching the other man war with himself in what was definitely a most uncertain and foreign battle to him, John thought that he might just once in a while want to nudge him. So that's what he did. Legs gently tangling at the calves, arms tightening and hands splaying out in wide stars across a slender back, and John was looking up at Sherlock as he did so. Gauging carefully, nudging him to act, whether it be for better or for worse; John was a grown man and besides he was prepared. If Sherlock pulled away again, it would certainly hurt, but he knew he could take it.

John was reaching tentatively for him. The continuing clash of wills in his head paused as Sherlock recognized the action. He came back to himself and read John in his customary fashion. No trace of expectancy, at least insofar as an explanation. 

 _I don't want to corner you,_  he'd said.  _I don't want to reopen your wounds._  

The sentiment still lay there in John’s expression, too, though not nearly as hysterical as it had been earlier. So Sherlock nudged himself over the last few centimetres between them and settled in without another word. 

"I imagine you were told how I found out about his death. Don't blame Mycroft; he was doing exactly as was expected of him." There - this was a safe avenue to speak on. A kind of warm-up for next week. Tiny corners peeled off in anticipation of the full explanation, wherein his hidden sentiments would be stripped of pretence.

"Ex...pected of him." It took John a few moments just to process what that meant, but when he did, a spark of realization lit up and died in his face. "Naturally. You told him not to contact you." He nodded, still a hint unsure, waiting for confirmation. John hardly needed any, but if there was one thing he knew definitely not to do with Sherlock, it was assume. "I see." 

_As ever, John, you see but you do not observe_ , Sherlock's dispassionate voice came floating back to him. He did see, but it was true; he didn't quite understand. There were holes in his knowledge, gaps that needed to be filled with reasons and explanations he could clearly see Sherlock wasn't ready to give.

"I hardly ever have to _tell_ Mycroft anything, but in this case I'm arguing over semantics. He knew, or rather could _engineer_ that it would get back to me somehow, since I wouldn't be amenable to be told _by_ him. So that is how he chose to go about it. The topic of Father was so thoroughly infandous I didn't even know he had cancer. I don't know if being aware of that would have prompted me to do anything. Not that it matters - he felt no need to reach out to me, so I suppose that answers the question." His tone was surprisingly level; but again, they were still only skirting the topic. This was harmless. It was only after Sherlock had finished speaking that John realized he'd been subtly holding his breath. He let it out almost silently, his lips brushing against the other man's protruding collarbone as he opened his mouth to speak again. 

"I see," he said again, helplessly. They were just hopping around this, as if dancing for rain around a long-lit fire. Futile. John gave a small little hum in thought, and all at once he didn't want to dance around the fire anymore. "I don't know how much you want to tell me," he opened quietly, "but I'm afraid if I inquire too much I'll tread upon ground you don't want to approach yet. So...let me ask you, first: Is there anything you feel comfortable enough sharing right now? About your father, about your mother, about your brother, about anything? I don't want to step on a mine, here." Sherlock started, but didn't balk at the sudden question. 

"I...Mycroft is fine. Mostly. Mother...well, that is all tied up with Father. Rather than that, John..." he sat up on an elbow. "I _want_ to tell you everything. But as I'm sure you can understand, it's not that simple. I can promise you that I won't repeat what happened today as long as you let me tell you when I don't want to talk anymore. And I would certainly extend that same courtesy to you regarding your own family. Christ, you probably need it more than I do," he said, voice a little bitter. He shook his head. "I am, for once," he continued with a bit of self-deprecating sarcasm, "not actively trying to be overdramatic. I haven't ever spoken on the subject with anyone besides Mycroft, and _that_ never ends well." John winced at the thought. 

"Point taken. Not to beat a dead horse, but you do know that I'm not going to push you about this - I know I've said it at least as many times that deserves a whack on the head." John gave a wan smile of his own. "You can absolutely tell me when you don't want to talk anymore. That's the point." He let out a ragged sigh, shrugging his shoulders and appealing to the ceiling. "My family's...my family. It's not ideal, but I suppose unlike you I've been made to talk about it more times than you can imagine." It was true - from concerned principals to friends' parents to his own sister to therapists more times than he could count, John knew what to say and how to say it exactly so that he wasn't so affected by it anymore. "Anyway. Point is, I don't want to dramatize anything, either, and you can be hesitant and reserved about this. Believe me. I'll understand. And I'll be here for those times you maybe feel a bit more comfortable, whenever that is." Sherlock played at the cut on his lip and stared at the sheets. 

"So you've talked about it in some respect with therapists and the like, then." A nod from John. "There's never...never been anyone like that for me. No one ever asked, and I never considered saying anything myself." He shrugged and sighed. "No point in moaning over it now, though. You're here. That's all I've ever needed. Your patience with me is saint-like." He caught John's hand and laced their fingers together. "It has always been my intent to explain everything in greater detail once I ascertain exactly what my mother wants. I'm not so foolish as to think she wants us to merely come round for dinner. This is a golden opportunity not to be wasted.” Warmth spread through John and he watched the slow twining of their fingers in each other. Nevertheless, something nagged at him and he frowned in remembrance. 

"Yes, Vincenzo mentioned that to me. Said it was a big deal, your mother wanting to have dinner with us - not that I doubted that for a second, but it just..." He gave a small half-chuckle, rubbing his thumb absently over the back of Sherlock's hand. 

"I don't think anyone does, not really," Sherlock said. "But he's right. Vincenzo is well-acquainted with my family and the social circle we inhabit, and being an outsider looking in, has much clearer perception of its folly. As part of that he is...aware of much of the circumstances of my life. You're providing a chance to mend a bridge for the first time in over a decade. You know how I am - apply that to an entire family. Not so difficult to imagine the dysfunction." John shrugged and gave a sarcastic half-chuckle in understanding.

"I suppose I don't know what I'm getting into, with all this. It seems quite...solemn, almost. Everyone's saying it's such a huge deal, but I'm sort of wondering what the agenda is. Though I know if your mother wants to meet me, it's only got to be good, right?" John asked. Sherlock held their joined hands to his lips for a few moments as he considered further. 

"My mother is shrewd, but not duplicitous. You're right - there's some kind of positive motivation behind it. That's about the only thing keeping me from going mad while I wait it out until Tuesday." At that, John smiled. 

"Well, I don't know your mother. But I can tell you the way I keep from going mad with your mental gymnastics sometimes is just to sit back and let you explain yourself - because, eventually, you do, on your own terms. You know your mother's got an ulterior motive, however positive it may be. So, you've got two choices; either drive yourself mad from here to Tuesday trying to figure it out, or don't take the bait." 

"Are you suggesting I give up trying to figure it out ahead of time in the hopes of creating a counter-plan?" Sherlock asked. "Logical and smart as that is, I think you know me well enough to understand that doing so is all but encoded in my DNA and I am helpless to the compulsion." He gave a long, sarcastic sigh. "But I suppose I can try." 

John shrugged and nodded vaguely in recognition, eyes roaming over the bruising patterns of Sherlock's face. He was starting to see them less and less, but after a moment's reflection he decided it wasn't because they were fading that quickly, but rather something else. 

"Enjoying the new colour palette in my face, are you?” Sherlock asked. “What is it?"

"Nothing," he replied, and the both of them smiled a little because John was a terrible liar and he knew it. "It's just...a day ago I saw those bruises as awful remnants of the past week'. And this morning, it was a little less. But now..." He reached up, not touching Sherlock's battered face but ghosting his fingers over it close enough to feel its radiant heat. He raised his eyebrows contemplatively. "Now it's as if I hardly see them at all. If anything, they just draw me to your eyes."

"Well by all means, then, just punch me weekly and it can stay that way." Sherlock grinned, instantly wincing as it scrunched his nose. "Ahh. So much for smiling. See, nothing good comes of being cheerful, John." Huffs of laughter echoed a bit in his folded hands over his face. "Bad timing to rile you up into a sexual frenzy, it seems. I'll keep that in mind for next time." Blinking away the watering in his eyes, he removed his hands and let out a long, calming breath. "And what a frenzy it was," he murmured with a smirk, edging close to John for a careful kiss. "That's not something I could do all the time, but _definitely_ once in a while. God, you were magnificent." A little bit of the manic lust from earlier lit Sherlock's eyes as he remembered. A little huff of a laugh left John's throat as he reciprocated the careful kiss. 

"Easy," he warned in a growling tone reminiscent from earlier, purposeful in its lusty teasing. He smirked just a bit as he ducked around to tenderly kiss the rather deep bite mark in Sherlock's ear, knowing not to linger as it would just start something the both of them weren't energized to finish at the moment. He pulled back. "I don't know whether to be disappointed at this coupling's irregularity or relieved by it," he joked, laughing lightly and turning his gaze downward for a split second.

"Irregularity?" Sherlock said with a dismissive huff. " _Experimental_ ," he rebuked enthusiastically.

John glanced back up at Sherlock through his lashes. "You are without a doubt sexier than anyone I've ever had, " he said, quiet and purposeful.

"Would you qualify the 'sexiness factor', for lack of a better term, by my willingness to delve into the strange and extreme, or something else? Because that's what comes to my mind when you say that." Any time Sherlock had heard others make reference to 'sexiness' as a quality, it was in regard to physical attributes - but John qualified people by their personalities and actions, so he could be different. That, and Sherlock had little idea what about him physically could be 'sexy'. He shuddered a bit at having to default to such a common, pop-culture term for the discussion. John eyed Sherlock curiously, propping himself up on an elbow. So this was one more thing the man hadn't heard before. Okay. John pursed his lips, trying to figure out a way to explain the inexplicable - his attraction to Sherlock Holmes. 

"That's definitely a factor," he replied slowly. "But not the only one or the main one by any means." He tilted his head, surveying the other man. "But it's more...a certain confidence. The way you might not have a ton of experience but even so you still don't let that get in the way of learning. And Jesus, do you learn fast." He blew a breath of air out of his cheeks, pausing in thought as well as emphasis. "Obviously, there's a physical appeal as well, though I don't expect you to believe me, so I won't try to delve into details."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile at John's awe at his learning curve and fake-it-till-you-make-it attitude, looking at him with his best ' _really_ , John' expression. 

"It's not a matter of believing you or not," he continued, referring to his appearance, "I believe that _you_ find me appealing. I don't get it, but that's not the point. I would love details. I always love details, _especially_ if they're about me. Come now, John, do keep up." He pinched the skin at John's hip in a teasing prompt to continue. "And it would certainly help me understand how you can find me, as a man, aesthetically and sexually appealing. Because I _am_ the only man you've ever found enticing as such, yes?" he asked as an honest scientific inquiry, no jealousy in his tone at all. Maybe John had entertained bisexuality in the past - Sherlock didn't know. It didn't read on him externally, but Sherlock often didn't pay a huge amount of attention to sexuality when it came to deductions. It rarely mattered beyond a footnote.

"Yes," John replied evenly, admirably keeping a straight face even at the slight twinge in his hip from the pinch. "There've been other men. I mean, there've been other _encounters_. But it was always about getting off. Mostly in the army - and when I say mostly, there's been, like, three times. Never once looked at a man's body and...felt something, like I do with you. You remind me of marble, almost - but much warmer. Your legs are just...God, when they wrap around me, I just..." He shuddered. "A-and your lips are just so perfectly shaped, and they taste heavenly. But what I really love is when you're all stretched out, all long lines. It just does something to me." In spite of himself, Sherlock flushed a bit at the gushing review of his physical characteristics. 

"Lines, yes. Okay." He cleared his throat self-consciously. "But regarding other men...you say _mostly_ in the army. Is the other one of those ill-fated university experiments so colloquially common?" He paused a moment in consideration. "This...isn't a typical line of inquiry sexual partners make of each other, do they?" Sherlock asked. "You haven't objected yet, but if you'd rather I left it alone..." he offered half-heartedly, fascination tugging at his mind to keep asking for all sorts of interesting context on John's life, sexual or otherwise. John considered taking Sherlock up on his offer to leave it alone, but eventually shrugged. 

"Two weeks ago I'd be extremely private about it. Probably blush a lot. Be uncomfortable. But...call it a change of heart. I don't really care about that stuff anymore. It sort of takes a backseat to everything that's happened. Ah...no, actually, I was pretty unadventurous at university. The one time I'm talking about is after I got back from Afghanistan, but before I met you. I was still pretty heavily seeing my therapist, Ella. And I kind of just wanted to forget everything for a while, because it didn't feel like her sessions were working." He took a deep breath. "So, I went out to a club, got really drunk, and thought 'what the hell' when some bloke started flirting. He just sucked me off a couple times." Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. 

"For a doctor - and just you being you - that is an impressive show of poor life choices. You could have-" he cut himself off. John was well aware of what could happen to him in a situation like that, better than Sherlock himself. He made to start a new sentence, but was stalled by a sudden thought. This apparently being honesty hour, Sherlock decided to go for it. The worst that could happen was that John refused to answer, and Sherlock had already given him carte blanche to do so. No harm no foul. 

"You...were in rather bad shape when we met, weren't you?" he asked quietly, more as a confirmation than an actual question, but the follow-up was an honest inquiry: "Just _how_ bad off were you?" John didn't answer right away. Instead he fingered at the sheets for a minute or so, gathering the courage to reply. When he finally opened his mouth, his voice was weary but purposeful. 

"Pretty bad. Sherlock, I wasn't sleeping. Every time I closed my eyes, I had flashbacks. My limp hurt terribly when I walked, even though I was shot in the fucking shoulder. I hardly ate - when you saw me for the first time I was thinner than I'd been in a while. Used to be bulkier from the army, but pretty much all of it dropped." He sighed shakily. "You might not ever know just how much you saved me." Sherlock's face fell at his reply, though it shouldn't have surprised him at all. 

"You don't..." John's distant expression answered the unspoken question for him. He let his hand run soothingly up from John's hip and side to rest against his chest. What could he say? Nothing, really - at least nothing that didn't voice the thought, and Sherlock didn't think he could handle that after today. "I love you." That should say everything that need be. He shuffled up against John and held him. "I think that's all either of us need to consider on that subject," he offered weakly before digging into the crook of John's neck with his chin. John didn't have time for reminiscing in the stewing memories of what used to pass for John Watson - and he was ever grateful for that. He let out one more breath and hugged Sherlock tighter against him, one hand slipping up to cradle the back of his head. 

"I love you, too," he replied, and his voice was no longer tired, no longer weary. "That's enough for me."

"Yes," was Sherlock's only reply. He ran the side of his foot up and down John's calf and just laid with him a while, content in the silence between them. Eventually, however, Sherlock grew bored of merely laying around, especially since his mind swirled with plans for the next few days and weeks. He sighed heavily.

"I really do feel utterly disgusting." Their eyes met and Sherlock pouted at John. He received an eye roll and a theatrical nod in return. "And my laptop?" he requested further as John made to get up. "Oh, and I saw you brought home the Chinese. I appreciate you saving mine; I'm famished, how about you?" A small smirk splayed across John's face as he stood and pulled on the pair of his boxers that were lying on the floor. 

"I seem to have worked up a bit of an appetite," he said wryly, surveying Sherlock's torn pants strewn a few feet away. He'd have to replace those...but he supposed he'd have enough money to do so, now that he was going to be legally bound to an ambivalent millionaire's account. He moved to the kitchen, grabbing the Chinese and heating it while he scooped up Sherlock's laptop from the living room. After the food was properly reheated, he carried the items back to the bedroom and set them carefully down on the bed before quickly wetting a flannel in the bathroom. 

"Lay on your back," he instructed, and knelt over Sherlock's form on the bed, gently wiping the dried semen from the man's stomach.

Once John was done, he sat up; already his muscles were protesting any kind of rapid change in position. John got back up to get rid of the flannel. 

"Pants?" Sherlock asked, eyebrow raised. 

He picked up his laptop and began shifting back towards the headboard. Just as he settled in, his vision was obscured as something soft collided with his face. Laughter echoed off the walls of his bedroom - John had, with an impressive show of aim, thrown a new pair of pants right at his head. 

"So  _very_  clever, John," he snipes, but a hint of a repressed smile on his face told the real story. Gingerly, he put them on and slumped into the pillows before resting his laptop on the plane of his torso. "Joining me?" he asked lightly, already tapping away at the keyboard with lightning-fast fingers. While waiting for a page to load he snapped up his leftovers and began nibbling at it. 

John hummed in confirmation, though didn't slip into bed beside the other man just yet. Instead, he padded back to the living room to grab his own laptop and the now only warm cup of tea Sherlock had started before John had come home. Sipping lightly at the lukewarm cup, he slipped back into bed beside the man and settled shoulder to shoulder to finish a bit of paperwork from the hospital. Sherlock began looking up bookings and potential flights for Amsterdam. As he searched, he found getting there would be surprisingly little issue this time of year, but... 

"Looks like we can't book a full week at the hotel until about three weeks from now," Sherlock said, eyes remaining on screen but nonetheless talking to John. "I won't make any promises, but I'll try to keep myself out of any particularly enthralling cases that could take a lot of time before we leave. But I suppose that's better for you anyway if you want to give the hospital-" he turned to address John, but found the man sitting next to him had gone a bit grey in the face and hands completely still over the keyboard (not that that meant much, given how abysmal of a typist John was). Sherlock leant forward to see John from the front a bit better. 

"John? Everything alright?"

It hadn't been until he'd opened up his laptop and the date had popped up in the top right corner that he'd made the connection. John stared at the little black numbers on the screen, willing them to move backward or forward or be anything but what they were. Not now. Not when everything was beginning to become okay again. Anger, guilt, and grief assailed him.

"Is that the right date?" he asked, voice distant and eyes transfixed as a finger rose up to point at the screen, an entity almost separate from himself. He didn't know why he was asking. He knew the answer.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi errybody~
> 
> Of course we'd be the only fandom where the a season can transpire between monthly fic postings. What a difference that month makes, eh?
> 
> Two notes for this chapter, however the other will be at the end of the chapter because it's relevant to the exposition of this new section.
> 
> Here, however: I didn't keep proper track of where our chapter beginnings and endings are falling. So the trigger warnings as I told you about in chapter 13 don't apply in this one - HOWEVER they very, very much will for 15 when it's posted. My mistake, sorry!!
> 
> Enjoy, and like I said, there's gonna be a bit of postscript at the end for people who are curious.

Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Of course it is, it's rather difficult for a computer to..." 

Was John shaking? He was fine five minutes ago. After the rollercoaster of a day they'd had, what on Earth could go wrong now? 

"John, what is it?" he asked, confused and more than a little concerned, but didn't quite yet abandon his laptop and turn his entire attention on John - he didn't usually like that. For some reason, he thought himself an inconvenience at times like this. John shut his eyes and shook his head, exhaling deeply. 

"A little over two and a half weeks," he said, voice way too calm to be normal, "will be the anniversary of Mary's death. Mary and-" His voice cracked and he cleared his throat brutally, forcing the break in composure down. "It's – well. At least I don't have to buy _three bouquets_ this year." Sherlock's gut dropped out. He gibbered for a few moments, too stunned to come up with anything to say. 

"I...we can, um, leave another week later, then," he said before he realise how tactless that sounded. "Or later than that. Later is fine," he said quickly, his own hands curling into the keyboard. 

Why might have John needed _three_  bouquets, though, Sherlock wondered to himself.

...oh. Right. 

The lead in his gut twisted into faint, anxious nausea. 

"Whatever you need, I'll...provide," he said, words spilling out faster than he could properly plan them out. "If you need anything at all, that is. Far be it from me to make assumptions. I'd be fine with it if you need me out for a couple days like at first, I understand." 

When Sherlock had first come home, he and John had only spent a few sporadic hours together at a time, John far too overwhelmed to be with him all the time. They didn't start living together officially in 221B until almost a month after he'd come back. It had been agony for Sherlock's limited sense of emotional appreciation; the time he spent with John made him a nervous wreck for fear of saying the wrong thing, and even worse when they were apart, anticipating seeing John again and trying to plan appropriately for it. 

"Don't feel compelled to do anything on my behalf, that's-"

John held up a hand for silence, and Sherlock obliged immediately. 

"I think," he opened quietly, and it was dead silent in the room except for his soft voice. "I would like to take that day to myself, if I could." He took a deep breath, then nodded once, as if becoming more sure of himself and his request. "Yes. I'd like that day to myself. I won't be a hassle, I won't even be at home." He paused, and his voice grew a sliver stronger. It was just a tad, just a hair, but enough. "I don't need you to push back the trip, I just need one day."

Sherlock wilted a bit, but nodded. Whatever John needed. Sherlock would have to find something suitably destructive to let his anxiety out on for that day. He was privately a bit wounded John didn't want him around, but he knew it was just a knee-jerk reaction and it would pass. 

"You're not a  _hassle_ , John." His head was tilted towards his computer, now, but gave John a sidelong glance. "But anyway...yes, that's fine," he said, nodding vaguely. "May I...ask where you'll be going?" He would have added a 'just in case' to the end of that sentence, but they both knew it was just morbid curiosity. No point in pretense. 

"Playhouse Theatre, Hampton Court Gardens, Brompton Cemetery." John rattled off the places as though he'd previously rehearsed them. "In that order." He finally chanced a glance over at Sherlock to find the man slightly deflated, though trying hard not to show it. He blinked. "You're hurt." Was this what Sherlock felt like when he noticed the reactions of people he hadn't intended to hurt? Well, when he cared enough? "You think it's because I don't want you with me. That's not it. The thing is, I tend to...talk, by myself. It probably doesn't say anything good for my sanity, but it helps me connect. I did it with...with you, and I do it with her."

"Those are...places you went with her." Sherlock said, more in confirmation than anything else. Talking at nothing sounded very like John. He knew John didn't believe he was actually being heard or anything like that, but sometimes he just needed to talk at nothing to process his thoughts. "Between the two of us, I think I'm a bigger cause for concern than you," he joked before sobering considerably. "You...talked to me? About what?" John managed a little smile at Sherlock's much-appreciated lightening of the mood, then sighed. 

"All kinds of stuff. I'd tell you what happened to me that day, how work was going, how I was doing in general." John wasn't sure how much to reveal, so he left out things like the fact that his limp had gotten bad again and he had nightmares of the Fall. "I told you about my love life, too, though there wasn't anything to report until I met Mary. I told you a bit about our life together. When I moved out of 221B, that was big - I told you about that. It was sort of nice to imagine you were there, scoffing at something I'd said or giving one of your little smiles." His eyes snapped back into focus from their faraway reverie. "Anyway. Stuff like that."

"Despite the fact I don't believe in any kind of afterlife, I find the thought of that...rather comforting. I guess by virtue of the fact you hadn't forgotten me, right?" He held a hand up and John took it. "I wouldn't mind at all coming with you, if you were concerned about my reaction. But I imagine anything you say would be just for her." He let out a calming sigh. "Are you going to be okay in the interim?" John watched their linked hands, fiddling with his hand in Sherlock's. After a long, contemplative silence, he nodded his affirmation and edged just a tiny bit closer to Sherlock for comfort. 

"I wouldn't have forgotten you, you know. Couldn't have. I went around places with you, too. Went to Speedy's and Angelo's, and your...grave." It felt weird to say it now, as Sherlock was sitting right there in front of him, warm and breathing and alive. "Couldn't make back it to Bart's, though. Never could." He shrugged, tracing his fingers over Sherlock's palm.

"I'd never expect you to," Sherlock replied easily, grasping John's wandering fingers. "It  _is_  where we met, yes, but I rather ruined the aura of sentiment there doing what I did." He went quiet for a few moments, pondering the wisdom of speaking on the matter himself. "When I was away," he began, looking away from John, "I used to think about your reactions to landmarks in the areas I visited. What you'd say if you visited the Eiffel Tower, for instance. I'd have whole conversations - not out loud like you, but not dissimilar to what you mentioned. I look forward to seeing if I was right when we get to Amsterdam. I will be, of course, but there's always a fluke or two." He smiled and turned to catch John's eyes. "Every moment I wasn't occupied with my work, I thought of you. For better or worse; even when I was high, though you took on a rather odd appearance when that happened." 

Belatedly, he realised that was probably Not Good to mention, but seeing how it was too late, he simply dropped the rest of the thought and didn't say any more. No need to muck it up further with his incompetence. A twinge flitted in John's stomach at the mention of Sherlock's relapse, but it was no more than that. He felt comfortable enough to squeeze Sherlock's hand and press a small kiss to his shoulder in reassurance. He paused in consideration, wondering if he should drop the subject, but since Sherlock had brought it up, he thought it might be alright just to give a few quiet words. 

"I know you made a mistake, but in some small way I'm grateful you still thought of me. That lets me know that you were planning on surviving to see me again.”

John's sentence had been harmless, unknowing, but struck hard nonetheless.  _Surviving._  Yes, he only just barely managed that more than once while he'd been gone. 

"Of course. That had always been the plan, regardless of changes in your life. You deserved the truth once I was finished, and then you could decide if you still trusted me enough to continue associating with me. That seemingly tiny chance from my perspective was well worth it, romantically or platonically." An earnest and admirable answer, Sherlock thought. Quite sufficient...and also nowhere near the truth. Not that John was going to know it if Sherlock could help it. That time, that particular version of Sherlock, was far, far behind.

John nodded and leaned his head back against the wall, stroking along the side of Sherlock's hand with his thumb. 

"I'm so grateful for that, Sherlock. Despite how angry I was, I was more relieved. To be honest, it terrified me to think that there was a possibility you might have chosen not to come back." He glanced away, a bit ashamed at the thought now that he looked back on it. "I know _now_ , of course - but I mean, the thought that you could have actually died out there, doing all this just to keep us safe - or maybe even worse, the thought that you could have been out there in the world, choosing...not to be...with me - I know it's selfish, but the possibilities scared me more than anything. And I don't know if I've ever thanked you. For everything. I know it's implied, but I really wanted to say it." Each cautious word from John's mouth only made Sherlock's guilt sink lower in his torso. All the wiser to never speak of it again.

"You  _have_  thanked me, explicitly and implicitly," Sherlock replied, "multiple times. However the sentiment is always appreciated. It's incredibly relieving I didn't give up three years for nothing." He relinquished John's hand, shut his laptop and drew his knees up to his chest. He dropped the side of his head onto his knees and sighed wearily. "And as far as risking my life...one of the reasons I couldn't tell you what I was doing, besides your personal safety, was the sheer day-to-day risk I was taking. It would have driven you mad if you had knowledge of what I was doing at the time and waiting on news from me or Mycroft. Furthermore, you never would have been able to come see me when I _was_  hospitalised. It sounds terribly egotistical to even my ears, but you would have been worried constantly. You wouldn't have had a  _life_ , John." John returned a wry smile. 

"I appreciate what you were doing for me. But honestly, I wouldn't have had a life either way." 

He rolled his shoulders a bit before sinking down into the mattress, laying on his back with his arms folded behind his head. 

"I knew you were lying," he spoke to the ceiling, "what you told me on that roof. I just didn't know why." His mouth set in a tense line.

"I tried to tell you," Sherlock said quietly, "when I said it was a magic trick. Stupid on my part - trying to pass on a message like that in the name of sentiment could have gotten you killed." He put a hand on John's chest, thumb drifting back and forth. John nodded and continued.

"Then when they found his body on the roof, I knew...but I couldn't figure it out. I don't have your cleverness." He sighed and narrowed his eyes at the ceiling. "I badgered Mycroft about it for weeks. He had a gravestone as Brook, back when everyone...anyway. I wanted to exhume the body, because I'm positive it was taken." He gave a little shrug. "Doesn't matter now."

"You're correct,” Sherlock said, “IT _was_ taken, though I don't know quite how. Best Mycroft and I can guess, Jim Moriarty now drifts the currents of the Pacific Ocean. Cremated. No physical evidence of him left behind whatsoever, probably by his own direction." He leant down and kissed John's forehead. "We should have had this conversation ages ago." He bit his lip in hesitant pause. "Were you always positive I was dead? Never a lingering wonder?" he asked, more out of morbid curiosity than anything else.  

"I held out hope for a long time," John replied, nodding into the pillow. "It wasn't anything concrete, just a feeling something didn't add up. Couldn't get any proof, though. I think I really let go of the idea when I found out Mary was pregnant. And then, I didn't let go because I stopped believing in you. I did it because I had to. Because my family needed me in the present, not the past."

"And here I thought I'd pulled it off flawlessly. There I go again, underestimating you," Sherlock said, a smirk bending his lips. "Won't happen again." Even after all this time, he still didn't give John enough credit. "And you were doing the right thing, moving on for the sake of your family. That day at Bart's proved to me you'd believe in me regardless of circumstance and sanity." 

Sherlock paused a moment in consideration of John and the family he'd nearly had. However awful the loss of Mary was alone, Sherlock knew that the addition of the death of his son was what truly crushed him. 

"How...far along was she when she passed?" He shook his head abruptly. "No, don't answer that, you shouldn't be reliving that day upon my request. Sorry."

John's gaze shifted almost imperceptibly toward Sherlock and he remained quiet for a long few moments. Then he turned on his side toward the man, curling up a little and shutting his eyes. From here, John looked less like a bereaved man and more like a sleepy child. 

"She died in childbirth. He came out with the cord wrapped around his neck and she hemorrhaged." Sherlock shut his eyes and sighed almost silently. He put his fingers through John's hair. 

"I'm so sorry, John," he said weakly. He slid down to lay next to him and slowly wrapped his arms around him. "I...whatever you need from me. However long." He continued carding fingers through John's hair. Despite the subject matter, despite the memories, despite everything...John smiled. Just a little. 

"I know. Almost a year; it's unbelievable. Ella said I should go for weekly visits, because apparently after a certain point a guy like me becomes a suicide risk she can't legally ignore. But...funny, how I always seem to stop needing my therapist when I've got you, because I haven't needed to go in months." As he spoke, John had, consciously or unconsciously, huddled closer against Sherlock, slipping his arms loosely around the man's midsection.

"Spending time with me is cheaper, more intellectually interesting _and_ you get off with me along with everything else," Sherlock said, allowing himself a smile. "But in all seriousness, I will listen if you want to speak on the day they died. However, don't feel as though you have to." He smoothed a hand against John's face, putting in just enough pressure in the hopes of easing out some of the tension in the other man's expression. John opened his mouth, then decidedly closed it and fluttered his eyelids shut at the touch. 

"I will. I'll speak to you about it, someday. Just not now. Now, it's just...soon. I think I need to make amends with her first." He grimaced. "Sorry, I know that sounds like I'm crazy. I'm not, I'm-" He cut off abruptly, feeling like he was unnecessarily defending himself. "I just need to straighten out my thoughts about it first. My marriage to Mary was...strange." Sherlock's eyebrows scrunched in confusion. 

"Amends? I understand if you need time - anyone would." He thought about it a little further, jolting a bit as he came to a realization. "You mean because of me. Now, and then. How I changed your relationship with her. You don't sound unstable at all, when it's put that way. The dynamic between the three of us is...complicated. And I don't know how to alleviate it."

"There _is_ no dynamic between the three of us," John countered, opening his eyes and laying a hand against Sherlock's chest, "because there _aren't_ three of us." He kept his voice steady and his eye contact direct as he said it, rubbing his thumb gently over the light thumping he could feel under the skin. "When I married her, Mary was so in love with me," he began haltingly. "And I just couldn't love her as much as she loved me, and she knew that, and she didn't care. She always said she loved me enough for the both of us." He gave a short, strange laugh. "She knew she wasn't mine, even if I was hers. I just...need time to get over that. The...feelings. The guilt. I need to apologize, in my own way, even if I know she can't hear me." Sherlock rubbed John's wrist on his chest reassuringly. 

"I see. As I told you before, there is a quality to you that draws people in. I can't qualify it myself - maybe Mary could have. It is endemic to who you are, just as your compulsion to apologise for it is. All part of you. And despite the fact Mary is not here, she is still a presence between you and I. You are a widower, John. And the person she was left a mark on your life, don't you agree? You are not the man you were when I left any more than I am. None of this exists in a vacuum." 

John's expression was rather neutral, but his eyes were dulled and weary. He'd had enough trauma and death in his one life for easily a half-dozen people. Sherlock would likely never understand how John coped as he did. Had their roles been reversed, he would have given up and killed himself years ago. John winced and dug his cheek a bit more into the pillow, though he didn't let up on the gentle thumb-stroking. 

"You're right," he said finally, voice faint and whispery. "You're right. I know you're right. I'm not the same. I wasn't the same when I was seventeen, I wasn't the same when I was in Afghanistan, I wasn't the same three and a half years ago and I'm not the same now. But it's the strangest thing. Ever since I met you, I've been okay with that. You're not just my lover, you're my best friend. And I think you started helping me eons before I even realized it."

"'Course I'm right," Sherlock joked gently. "I don't know what to say to that other than I'm glad I'm not an entirely destructive force in your life. I am...also and equally confusingly okay with the change you effected in my life as well. Though I almost certainly strained against it more than you at first. I...don't _do_ change, normally. But you know that." John was looking a little tattered, so Sherlock closed the distance between them and pulled the other man on top of him. "I'm not fond of platitudes, but in this case I do believe the worn adage about time healing wounds is appropriate. And perhaps a bit less self-flagellation. And that's coming from a master in that art." He tugged at John's chin to pull him in for a long kiss. The corner of John's mouth tugged up in a small half-smile into the kiss, and Sherlock must've felt it because he smiled too. 

"You have changed," he mused when they pulled apart, resting his chin gently on Sherlock's chest to look up at his face a few inches away. "You're more compassionate, more...human." He winced, then gave a self-deprecating smile. "I hope you know what I mean. You're less distant. More vulnerable - and I mean that in the best way possible. I think you've really grown into it." Sherlock shrugged off John's apology.

"You're correct. I am less able to distance myself, and I do indeed feel much more vulnerable. And the compassion, well, that's mostly only with you. I suppose it bleeds into my interactions with others, but minimally. I've wasted a lot of time I could have had with you. That's what drives me to put more effort into it. And, well, the time I was away was...difficult. One standard day during that time would have changed anyone - three years is almost inconceivable to me, and I lived it.” 

In many ways the metaphorical steel carapace Sherlock made to keep between himself and the world wasn't not nearly as strong as it used to be; time and sentiment and wounds, physical as well as psychological, had severely dented and chipped away at it. At first it bothered him upon his return to London, but as he'd re-acclimated and begun to help gathering John back into a semblance of functionality, he found he could channel a lot of his newfound emotionality into the other man unnoticed. The positive _and_ the negative. And _now_ , well...it was almost becoming unthinkable not to share at least some of his heart, if only with John.

“I feel incredibly inconsistent and ill-equipped for all this...new sentiment. It doesn't feel so much like 'growing' than 'stumbling and falling flat on my arse' into it. You have such implicit trust from me, I often don't even realise I'm doing or saying things I  _never_  would with anyone else, and when I do realise it, I panic and recoil. But I suppose progress is progress, hm?" John laid his head down atop Sherlock's chest, listening to his heartbeat and allowing himself to relax into the other man's body. 

"Yes. Progress is progress." He yawned, subconsciously resting one hand atop Sherlock's chest by his face. "Growing often is falling flat on your arse. And, you know, the equally tired old metaphor of getting up again. That's the important bit." He remained quiet and still for a while, and one would almost believe he was asleep until he spoke again into the silence. "I don't mind you recoiling. I can handle it. You implicitly trusting anyone is a monstrous deal on its own, so I know there are going to be panic moments. There might always be panic moments. And that's _okay_." He smiled slightly into Sherlock's skin. "I've put up with your arse when recoiling was the norm, do you think you're going to get rid of me that easily?" Sherlock gave a breath of laughter. 

"True," he said. Then, much more quietly. "Thank you." 

He took a deep breath in hopes of easing the sudden pressure of pure sentiment filling his chest. Even in obviously poignant moments, it surprised Sherlock when it struck, if for no other reason than its force in doing so. Calling it what it was -  _love_  - was still a bit uncomfortable for him to do consciously, but the thought had long since made a comfortable home in his subconscious. Only a matter of time, really. 

"You're..." he drifted off, trying to find the words that always came so easily to John when he described Sherlock, but coming up empty once again. "I love you," he said, settling on the default instead. Saying the word was easy; Sherlock could mix and twist any word with ease and flair. Acknowledging the truth of the sentiment was what was difficult.

"I know," came John's muffled, tired reply. He didn't return the sentiment because he didn't need to - it wasn't that kind of 'I love you'; he could hear it in Sherlock's voice. Rather, it was a default of sorts, no less genuine but no more, either. A means of expressing sentiment for a man for which expressing sentiment was exceedingly difficult. So the purpose of John's response was not to return the sentiment, because Sherlock already knew perfectly well that John loved him, though he might never know just how much. The purpose was to reply to the unspoken sentiment: _I don't have the words right now._

_I know._

"D'you want me to slide off you so you can work?" he asked, voice sliding a bit with drowsiness. "I'm going to nod off; I think we can both agree it's been a trying day."

Sherlock didn't answer right away, content to merely rub his hand lightly back and forth John's prone shoulder a few moments longer. "Mm," was eventually all he gave in acquiescence. John rolled onto his side and Sherlock pulled himself back up again haltingly. Before he settled back in again, he helped John pull up the blankets and slipped under them. John wrapped himself tightly in them and curled up, another small token of his still-compromised emotional state. Sherlock returned to reading a fan forum for their work - it did always provide rich entertainment as well as the occasional case - scrolling with one hand and setting the other on John's exposed head. He could go back to booking rooms and flights once John was totally asleep and Sherlock could use both his hands again. Maybe he'd sleep later, he wasn't sure. John did provide unique incentive to do so.

Once he'd tucked himself in, falling asleep was as easy as blowing out a candle. John did try to hold on just a bit longer, if only to allow total sensual attention to Sherlock's oddly protective touch in his hair. In his cocoon, he was perfectly warm and comfortable; his back hardly throbbed at all anymore; the sex this morning and the trip to the bank were - John's eyes popped open for two frightened seconds, then closed again. No use to worrying about that now. Best deal with horrible lying when - if - ever brought up. He shifted minutely, surrendering to gravity and the tug of oblivion.

It was only around eight when John passed out; Sherlock stayed up well into the night, booking their flight and hotel room in Amsterdam, checking up on their internet presence and, eventually, reading extensively on childhood abuse, PTSD and its treatment of manifestations. He couldn't help John if he didn't have relevant data on the matter. He'd never delved much into the topic before - he dealt with dead people. Living victims and the families left behind were very, very much not his area. Despite his obvious exhaustion, John would periodically become fitful in sleep as he hit REM cycles, but would calm down easily with a hand to the top of the head. That process continued until around three in the morning, when Sherlock decided he'd at last catnap for a few hours. With only a small click of the lid, Sherlock slipped his laptop onto the floor next to the bed and shuffled fully under the blankets. John had gone rather spread-eagle by that point, but with one firm tug on a shoulder he subconsciously rolled right into Sherlock's chest. As he calmed his mind and willed himself to rest, he nuzzled against John's head contently. 

"Flawless," he mumbled as he drifted off, "that's what you are, John." 

~

With the previous day's events, it was not hard to predict that John slept, soundly and inelegantly, like a log. He didn't wake for anything, not even halfway rousing, and any shifting or tossing he did during the night was completely unconscious. In fact, he slept so deeply that when he woke up, he felt like he'd taken a cold shower, as everything appeared sharp and clear. The early morning sunlight was barely streaming into the window, but it felt to John like a supernova; the sheets beneath him were just now noticed as extremely lush and high quality; the body almost smothering him was impossibly warm and soft. Not wanting to wake the other man up, John slipped out from Sherlock's protective embrace, glancing back to see only a minute shifting as a result of his efforts. Relieved, he padded silently out to the kitchen to set the kettle for tea, grabbing the paper and browsing through it on the counter as he waited for the kettle to boil.

Sherlock rose to consciousness about a half hour later. He rolled a bit, and aching involuntarily finished the waking process for him. Groaning loudly, he snatched up the blankets and pulled them over his head to block out the light. Just about every inch of him strained at any movement - nonetheless, the reason why had totally been worth it in Sherlock's opinion. John was clearly up, though for how long Sherlock had no idea. He'd slept much longer than he had intended. 

"Joooooohn," he whined from under the comforter. Wherever he was, it was too far away to his sleepy, petulant mind. John's ears perked up, but that was the only recognition he gave as he calmly turned the page of his laid-out newspaper and took the now boiling kettle off the stove. 

"In a minute," he called back, rolling his shoulders a bit and wincing slightly at the light sting from the movement. Of course, between all the dried blood and re-scabbed cuts his back probably looked like a gore scene, but he wouldn't worry about it; a shower later would soon wash off all traces of last night - and, strangely enough, he felt a little stab of regret at that. Carrying the made mugs back into the bedroom, newspaper tucked under his arm, he set one down on Sherlock's end table knowing the man was likely much averse to any sort of movement, then padded around to his side of the bed and settled in with his mug and paper. He spread it out on his lap and glanced over at the cocoon of sheets in the vague shape of a human body. 

"Hurt bad?"

"Not acute. Just aching." Tufts of dark, messed curls and narrowed eyes peeked up from the edge of the blanket. "Not that you seem particularly concerned," Sherlock said, referring to John's devil-may-care, relaxed position on the bed. Vague insults exhausted, he returned to his burrow. "What about you? If you've popped stitches, I take no responsibility." 

Outside the blanket was unpleasantly cold - Sherlock usually enjoyed keeping it a bit cooler when he slept in here, however this morning it seemed disproportionately so. Without emerging from underneath, he carefully shuffled his way across the mattress to be a little closer to John.

"Mmm," John gave in a noncommittal hum in response to the jabs, turning the page with his free hand and sipping from his mug with the other. The second page of the paper now acquired, he let his hand drift down under the sheets to rub slow fingers through the mess of dark curls that he'd watched shift closer out of the corner of his eye. "I haven't seen my back yet, but I suspect the last stitch at the top of my large scar's frayed loose - not that you had anything to do with it, of course," he murmured in an even voice, eyes only briefly taking their gaze way from the paper in his lap to roll almost imperceptibly. Sherlock arrived next to John's leg, but since he was on top of the sheets he couldn't do any more. Eyes made themselves just visible again, staring up at John. 

"I'll have a look later - and that is _not_ me conceding anything. That does, however, explain the smears of blood on the sheets," he said, glancing down under the comforter. Sizable blotches, but nothing to be concerned about. One hand snuck up and pulled at the waistband of John's pants. "Th' paper's boring. Pointless." John's brow furrowed slightly and he swatted Sherlock's hand away, though he couldn't keep the smile from the corners of his mouth. 

"Maybe, but it helps me get into the day," he replied, undertones of amused warning in his voice. "I _have_ to get some work done today, if we're meeting your mother in a few days. Actual hospital work. And anyway, don't you have a case on right now?" He hoped reminding Sherlock of an unfinished case would deter him enough - John wasn't sure he could deny the other man if he persisted.

"Unfinished case?" Sherlock asked, wiggling his way up to put his head on the pillow. "If you're counting my forensic testing and recreations on the Whitehall Mystery, John, then yes. However murders from the previous centuries, as you have been so keen on mentioning in the past, are not exactly pressing." He crossed his arms and half-heartedly tried not to pout. "Will you be out all day, then?" Sherlock probably should get up and about himself to avoid continued muscle strain, but he'd been hoping for something of a lie-in. He paused for a moment, almost horrified at himself for the remote desire. John had _domesticated_ him. "You don't need to keep your job at the surgery, you know. No need to worry about rent." A small piece of him had always felt a little bad for making the other man think he needed to keep up his side of the rent, but men like John needed that sense of purpose, so Sherlock has always let it go. John looked up from his newspaper then, shifting his gaze over next to him to the disembodied and completely dishevelled head peeking up onto the pillow. 

"I need something to occupy my time just like you. If I don't, I'll get restless. And lazy. And fat." He scrunched up his nose in distaste, trailing one finger lightly down between Sherlock's eyes, stroking the bridge of his nose. "And then I'll remind you of your brother, and that would be wholly unfortunate." He couldn't resist the little jab at Mycroft's expense. Besides, if the man was listening in as John's paranoia occasionally wondered, he got what he was coming to him. That and a hearty bout of brutal sex noises from the night before. Sherlock frowned. 

"Because locum medicine is _far_ more enthralling than chasing murderers week to week." He nipped lightly at the tip of John's finger. "And you are absolutely nothing like Mycroft besides the unfortunate fact you two share the same species name, though Mycroft's entire self suggests otherwise." An arm came free from its blanket prison and smoothed a hand over John's thigh. "But I can appreciate the need for...something different to keep you occupied. Not to mention a suitable outlet when I become...a bit _too_ much," he suggested quietly.

“Stop that,” John countered, voice equally quiet but more intense. This time, he wasn’t talking about Sherlock’s straying touch. “Don’t imply that there are times when I don’t want to be around you. That’s not true; there are times when I desire to be alone. There’s a difference. Subtle, but as you are who you are, I know you see it.” He sighed and folded his newspaper closed and up into a neat little bundle. He set it on the end table and took another sip of his tea before setting that aside too. John turned back to Sherlock and took the other man’s sculpted face between his hands, kissing him slowly. “Besides,” he added when he pulled away, hands still framing Sherlock’s face, “We don’t get cases all the time. The wall should be proof of that.” His eyebrows quirked up in light humour.

A hesitant smile spread on Sherlock’s face. He knew very well that he could indeed be ‘too much’ from time to time, and John was probably better acquainted with that than anyone else. People left when Sherlock was like that – John was just the only one who’d ever come _back_ later. However Sherlock didn’t think he’d ever be entirely reassured John would never leave forever by choice.

“Quite right.” He kissed John’s forehead in appreciation of his words and sat up haltingly. “You should turn around, hm? Let me have a look.”

John frowned slightly, not wanting Sherlock to see something that could possibly make him feel bad for the night before - he didn't want that, because _he_ certainly didn't regret a second of it. Reluctantly, though, he turned on his side away from Sherlock and leant on his elbow, eyes darting across the framed Periodic Table on the other man's wall. 

"Careful, I don't exactly know which ones are tender."

Slender, pale fingers hovered over John's skin. 

"You're right about the biggest one - popped just a bit at the top. May be able to get away with just bandaging it instead of resuturing." The red marks were fading quickly, mostly just thin lines and bits of bruising from the force at the time of injury. He bent and kissed John's scarred shoulder. "I apologise for my lapse in judgement, but to say I'm sorry it happened would be a vast overstatement on my part." He moved to nip at the skin a bit, but thought better of it at the last second after what had happened last night, as well as all the reading he'd done. Ideas had sprouted in his head for possible acclimatisation plans, but that wasn't for the here and now. "The rest of them have scabbed back over. Just bits of smeared and dried blood here and there." John nodded and gingerly rolled over onto his back, looking up at Sherlock's face. A boyish grin spread across his face. 

"To be honest, I can't say I'm sorry any of it happened, either." He shrugged minutely and his eyes glinted for half a second, only increasing the impish look. After a few more seconds of gazing up at the face hovering over his own, John couldn't resist reaching up to trace along that perfectly plump and shaped bottom lip, now adorned with a small scar as its only imperfection. He yawned. "Must do some appointments, paperwork...blah, blah..." He rolled into Sherlock and stretched his limbs out, looking distinctly like a drowsy hedgehog.

Sherlock caught him and buried his nose in the crook of John's neck. "Boring, boring....boooooring," he smocked, but merely smiled in response to John's theatrical eyeroll. "I'll have to come up with something extra-interesting for me to do just _knowing_ about the inanity of your day." Palms wandered across the other man's back, but kept purposefully above the equator. His eyebrows went up in realisation. "If you're going to be away all day, you might as well be useful and bring home milk, hm? Pretty sure what we have has long gone bad. For once, it's not because I used it all up for mould cultures. You're welcome." John chuckled into Sherlock's hair, nuzzling at it for a moment before letting out a content sigh. 

"The milk went bad because you have me trained not to drink it, what with all the toxic experiments you do with it."

"Fine. Buy two, then." 

John laughed and lightly nibbled at the edge of his partner's ear before pulling back to sit up.

"Alright," he muttered around a yawn, "time to get some work done."

Watching John get up off the bed and get ready to leave, Sherlock snatched up his laptop again and sat up against the headboard. He picked up and sipped at his own tea. 

"Everything is booked for our trip, by the way. You don't need to do anything." He kept his voice passive and left it at that. 

Having been on his way out the bedroom door, John completely stopped in his tracks, surprised, and inclined his head a bit behind him to glance sidelong at the other man. He paused a moment to process, then let out a little subdued "Oh." Another pause, during which unreasonable panic flooded his system at the prospect that Sherlock could have seen inconsistencies...or worse, he'd planned everything out to sixty thousand dollars instead of forty-seven. 

"Ah, everything's booked?...As in, everything?"

"Everything as in amenities, not flights, I suppose. The card I used was only for reservation on them, don't worry. You can pay it all with your money as your pseudo-machismo apparently demands you to. I may have planned a couple surprises, but I took care of that myself."

Sherlock kept his tone light and unassuming, but inwardly he balked a bit at the repressed panic in John's expression. Their trip to the bank yesterday and John's inexplicable anxiety were rearing their ugly heads again. Now was not the time, however. He resolved that this was still a matter he could investigate on his own before actually speaking about it. Upon Sherlock's elaboration, John instantly relaxed, not even bothering to process the insult to his traditional manhood he was so immediately content. 

"Oh. Alright then," he replied a bit more cheerily, turning and strolling into the bathroom. He left the door open as he rummaged through the drawers for his shaving equipment; Sherlock's request for stubble to remain was endearing, but John had no intention of actually growing out a beard, and his whiskers were getting rather long. He spread the foam over the bottom half of his face, wetting his razor and going about the morning routine of shaving his face clean.

"Do we need anything else besides milk?" he called from the bathroom, gaze still concentrated on exacting precise strokes along his face for the closest shave possible.

Once out of eyeshot, Sherlock immediately frowned. John had all but deflated in relief. Did that mean he merely was concerned Sherlock had spent more than he had left? No way to know. Already anxiety was tugging at his spine. He shut his eyes and let out a deep breath once John had disappeared into the bathroom. 

"No idea," he called back, surprising himself at how even his tone was. When they had first returned yesterday, he knew John had deposited the box in here...in was just a question of specifically _where_. 

John gave a sort of grunt in reply, finishing up his morning shave without so much as a small cut. He washed his face and moved into the kitchen to begin searching through the cabinets. There _had_ to be something else they needed, and John had enough trouble with the pin and chip machine for one trip to the supermarket as it was. He checked over their stocks and made mental notes of everything that was running low, finding to his dismay that the jar of strawberry jam he always used on his toast in the morning was emptied. The fridge was next, and John all but held his breath as he discovered that the cheese had apparently fallen victim to one of Sherlock's experiments. He shut the fridge quickly, resolving not to open it again. 

"I'm going to take a shower," he called, padding back into the bathroom. Time to wash that grimy dried blood from his back.

Sherlock hummed his acknowledgement while staring at his computer. John disappeared into the bathroom, and soon after the sound of water hissed in the background. He really, _really_ should wait until John was gone for the day. However all his normal patience had been leeched from him by the suddenness of the situation. He cast a critical eye around the room. There weren't many places yet John had claimed for himself in their now-shared room, so he disregarded the closet and bathroom. Wincing, he threw aside the blankets and swept to a dresser, surreptitiously sifting through John's clothes. Nothing. He turned and looked at the bed - ah, of course, he'd forgotten. Dropping to his knees, he looked under the bed. There it was, indeed. He pulled it out and opened it. Holding the traveller's cheques in a big stack with one hand, he quickly counted. Forty thousand.  He found a receipt within for a new checking account...with only ten thousand in it. That left thirteen thousand unaccounted for. _Untouched/_ he realised. His heart sank; it was just-in-case money. John was the type to plan for every eventuality, and that included needing to disappear in the middle of the night. Why else would he keep it secret? He sat slumped on the floor with the travellers cheques in his lap, trying and failing to think of positive possibilities John would keep a stash of money from him.

A hot shower proved just the wake-up call John needed, and approximately twenty minutes later he came strolling out of the bathroom in a towel skirt. However, there were a few things wrong with the picture when he stepped back into the bedroom. First, the bed was empty; second, the floor was not; third, Sherlock had found the box. Not just _found_ the box, gone _through_ the box. Which could only mean one thing. And judging by the stricken and dazed look on Sherlock's face, the man already had his own ideas as to why John would be keeping a secret from him. There was a long silence. John broke it reluctantly with hesitant but nevertheless blunt words. 

"Okay...Looks like we have a bit less money to spend in Amsterdam."

Sherlock calmly replaced everything back in the box and stood. 

"No need to lie, John. It's okay. It is...wise to plan for every eventuality. I completely believe you when you tell me of your sentiment, but time makes all things pliable. And though my feelings will never waver, I am a difficult man." As extraordinarily painful as it was to speak it, he was doing very well. "I cannot promise perfection on my part, but I will endeavour to ensure you will never feel the need to leave. I'm not angry in the least. I'm not entirely happy with lying about it, but the situation rather demands falsehood. I understand why you felt the need. You have no need to be concerned about it any longer, however." He nodded to himself and headed for the bathroom.  

John stood rooted in his place for a few precious seconds while the other man slipped by him, slack-jawed and staring at the spot Sherlock had been moments before. Moments that were now slipping rapidly away from him, and he needed to _fix this now, John_. 

"No." He spun on one heel and strode a few confident steps, gripping Sherlock by the wrist to prevent him from moving any farther away from him. "No, no, no. Sherlock, you've got it wrong. All wrong - well, not _all_ wrong, I was planning for eventuality - well, I suppose it's presumptuous of me to say that - I just-" He took a deep breath to collect his scrambled thoughts into coherent sentences, not letting up on his grip on Sherlock's wrist for the irrational fear that the man would run from him if given the chance. "I'm not leaving. Ever. That became clear to me years ago." His eyes flickered to the floor, and he slowed his speech. "I was planning for the possible chance that you would ever want to get married. To me."

Sherlock's brain screeched to a halt. Of all the potential answers John could have given, positive or negative, _that_ had never crossed his mind. 

"I...married? You...want to marry me?" he asked blankly. 

It was disgustingly simple and naive of him, but Sherlock had only ever considered marriage as a heterosexual thing, and in terms of basic sexual attraction, he'd mostly only ever found men as such. That was part of what had made Irene so unique. But, more specifically, he'd never considered marriage as anything that would never happen to _him_ , both for that reason and just because of his personality. As far as his relationship with John was concerned, he was very much living in the moment and just glad it was happening at all. He drifted back over to the bed and sat down.

All at once, John grew exceedingly uneasy. His heart sped up irrationally and he was fighting the sudden strong urge to bolt. He brought his hands up to cover his face for a moment, rubbing in attempt to calm himself down, and dropped them again. 

"Yes," he said finally. Best go with simple, honest, and direct. "Not now, and not ever perhaps if you didn't want it, too, but...Sherlock, you have to know on some level that I'd marry you in a heartbeat." It was at this point that his body decided to remind him of his scarce coverings, and he quickly shuffled over to the dresser, exchanging his towel for a clean pair of boxers. He chose a seat next to Sherlock on the bed, far enough to give the other man his personal space but close enough to let him know he wasn't shrinking away. "I didn't tell you because there was no need," he continued gently. "I was trying to avoid all this...this anxiety, and really quite unnecessary, too. You were right about one thing - I was preparing for a possibility in the future, but it's just that - a possibility. Please, the last thing I wanted to do was freak you out."

"No," Sherlock breathed, eyes staring at nothing in particular. "No, it...never even crossed my mind." 

Was he elated? Absolutely - John wanted to stay  _forever_ , and more than that, wanted to  _tell everyone_  he wanted to stay forever. That alone twisted Sherlock's mind into knots. But at the same time visceral fear swept in with it, because it also meant  _commitment_. Sherlock wasn't adverse to committing to actions and ideas in the least, but  _people_...he lied to, cheated, and danced intellectual circles around people daily because he found them supremely uninteresting. John was, of course, an exception, but at the end of the day Sherlock was Sherlock, and the term  _husband_  didn't exactly mesh well with who he was as a person. In short, he would likely be a truly atrocious life partner - at least, that was what his shock-rattled brain was telling him in sheer knee-jerk reaction. 

"I'm not 'freaking out'...well, not in the way you think I am. I'm not shocked by any sort of expectation on your part, I'm...shocked by the mere  _possibility._ "

"Oh." John nodded and looked straight ahead of him for a while, contemplating Sherlock's interesting reaction. He finally nodded. "Alright. That's fair enough." 

He looked over at the other man not without a sense of slight curiosity - what _was_ Sherlock thinking about all of it? Would he ever even consider it? John didn't know. He didn't seem the type to want to, at least not anywhere in the relatively near future, but then Sherlock wasn't really any sort of traditional type. What kind of ring would fit him if he ever did? Probably plain, silver or something, with some sort of protective coating so he could wear it during cases and experiments. John smiled. So very Sherlock. He shifted in his seat when he realized he'd been gazing blankly at the other man for too long. 

"So...let's not think about it right now, okay? No use stressing over something that's not even going to be pertinent for a while, at least. Maybe ever," he added, just to let Sherlock know he wasn't expecting anything.

"But I need to think about it," Sherlock replied, now even more confused. "How am I to come to a proper opinion on something without thinking about it? Or asking you of yours? I appreciate the fact you're trying to avoid pressuring me by saying what you are, but it isn't terribly helpful." 

Marriage, on its face, seemed like a slightly pointless affair to him, but it wasn't without its automatic legal benefits. That alone swayed his opinion towards positive quite a bit, even if he could secure virtually the same benefits just by having Mycroft for a brother. And then, of course, was John's opinion - knowing him, he was almost certainly approaching the idea in a vastly more sentimental way. Which led Sherlock back to his original opinion: why place such massive emotional value on something that is, in effect, redundancy in action? Sherlock was John's, and John, Sherlock's. Yapping at a justice or, god forbid, an actual minister about it in some sort of contrived display of fealty that, for ordinary people, only worked half the time? And as far as a ceremony  _in public_ , well... He shook his head. However Sherlock felt about it, he was only half the perspective, here. If, for whatever reason, John  _actually wanted_  a full-blown ceremony, Sherlock wanted to know so he could consider reasonable compromises. He would never want to deny John something he truly wanted, but Sherlock wasn't going to give him carte blanche to prance Sherlock about in a tux in front of  _people_.

"Makes sense," John revised himself. His lips pressed into a firm, thin line for a good few moments, then it was as if he'd decided something. "You want to know what I think of all this, yes?" He let out a little breath and nodded to himself. "Alright. I think that weddings are bullshit, but marriage is not. I think that to spend thousands of dollars for one extravagant event, while it might not be a problem in your case, is superfluous and rather contrary to the sincerity that getting married is supposed to have. I think that my mother has already been to one wedding for her son, and she doesn't need another. I've been in a marriage once before already, Sherlock, and I'm not keen to jump right into another, but I think I would like to prove to you and the rest of the world that I wake up in the morning next to you not because I want to, but because I need to."

Sherlock flushed and his mind stalled at John's final words. He stared down into his lap, struggling to get his thought process back online again. "Those are...all reasonable sentiments to hold," he finally managed, inwardly kicking himself for how robotic his words and tone were. Really, _reasonable_? That was the best word he could come up with? He blinked aside the self-deprecation and moved on. "And I think between your widower status and my own...lack of knowledge and comfort in the concept, I would wait on making the formal, legal arrangement. Though I am _incredibly_ relieved you aren't all the interested in a wedding ceremony," he added, a smile just barely evident in his features. "I am..." he ground his teeth and muttered to himself as he searched for the proper word, before remembering his thought from earlier, "I am _elated_ you not only wish to commit yourself, but show others that you do. That, ah, rather means a lot to me." It was weak, tentative, but he knew John would understand the sincerity in what he was saying. "Though I'm curious to know just what about me suggests I'm _husband material_ ," he said, offering a bit of levity as well as honestly asking the question.

Though he tried his damnedest, a small smile nevertheless worked its way across John's features. It was on the border of being a smirk, but held none of the sarcastic intent. "To be honest, I ask myself the same question. But despite the irritability and...stunted emotional growth, you do things, some you're not even conscious of, that make me love you even more. They're not particularly profound or elegant, but...I wouldn't say you're the type of man to be deemed traditional 'husband material.' But you are the type of man to frantically clean the flat in a weird apology during a fight. You're the type of man to indulge in snarky banter and in another second have me flat on my back moaning." This time, a bit of the smirk quirked up more in his lips, but then his voice grew inexplicably softer. "You're the type of man who would come for me, without fail, if I were ever in trouble, and you're the type of man to sacrifice yourself for the people you would deny harbouring sentiment for but in the same breath prove that you so obviously love. And if I don't want to marry a man - hell, _anybody_ \- like that, then I really am an idiot." Sherlock had truly gone scarlet, and his eyes widened into saucers. 

"I-I...indeed do all those things, don't I?" He brought his legs up onto the bed and crossed them. "As ever, you provide an excellent summary of my behaviours," he said, clearing this throat. "And further proves your descent from sanity in continuing your association with me," he added with a smile, reaching for self-deprecating humour as he had no clue how else to respond. He resumed staring at his lap. "You've given me much to think about. And...I apologise for doubting your intent. I tried to come up with reasonable positive explanations for the discrepancy, but that never would have crossed my mind were I given a week to do so." He paused, biting his lip. "And if I could inquire further...your hesitance to 'jump right into another' marriage...is that due to hesitance in annulling the one you have with Mary? I know you'd have to do that if you wanted to _actually_ marry me. I completely understand if that is the case - I assume it is part of your seeking absolution from her memory." He asked the question slowly, looking up at John from under lowered eyelashes, at once tentative and apologetic for not simply understanding his reasoning and needing to ask. John glanced away almost immediately at the mention of his late wife, then internally scolded himself. He was the one who'd brought it up in the first place, after all. 

"In some way, I suppose," he replied slowly. A frown and a smile warred in his features for dominance. "My marriage to Mary was...well, nobody's perfect, and we had our own set of problems. But for the most part, we were almost partners in crime. It was sort of us against the world. I grew comfortable with her, not in the same way as with you but still in a way I'd never thought I'd be able to again. I think you would have liked her. She was...a best friend. And when I lost her, it was like the ultimate proof that I should never allow myself to _have_ feelings and relationships like that again. It was hard. So in some way, yes, I'd like to take some time's reflection in order to 'absolve' myself of her memory. I need to have that time to think. I didn't really let myself, before." Something akin to panic spread in Sherlock, to the extent he took John's hands in his own and stared up at him. 

"Don't do that. Ever. That's what _I_ do." Realising John likely had no idea what he was referring to, he shook his head and started over. "Not allowing yourself emotions and relationships. That is what I have done for almost thirty years - I am a shining example of _exactly_ why you should never do it. Obviously you're not any more, given our current situation, but should anything ever happen to me - _no_ , John," he said, cutting off the expected refutation as John moved to speak it, "if anything ever does happen to me, _don't ever do that_. It runs counter to everything you are as a person and I won't have it. There is no _proof_ like that, you have shown that to me beyond doubt. If I'd known you were entertaining thoughts like that when I'd first returned, I would have been much more proactive in your grieving process. However little good I may have done." It was difficult, holding Sherlock's gaze. But, as was everything that was ever difficult for John, he did it anyway because that's just who he was. He swallowed. 

"But it wasn't your grieving process. It _isn't_ your grieving process. You understand that, don't you? Sherlock, I'm more than a little flawed- and don't even try to scoff at that, you know it's true. I know it's true. If you think withdrawing from emotions and relationships is uncharacteristic of me, believe me, I've considered things far more uncharacteristic." He exhaled slowly. "If I wanted someone who would give me objective advice and help, if I still thought I could benefit from that, I'd have gone back to my therapist by now. You need to know that. I'm not some saint who graces you with my decision to remain yours - it's much more selfish, much more passionate, and in a lot of ways much more twisted than that. When I say I need you, I mean it." Sherlock gibbered, tightening his hands around John's. 

"But...but when I first left, I went into it with confidence because I knew you could handle it. And then I came home and your life had taken such a turn for the worse...just as you say you need me, I _need_ to know you will survive and, however long it takes, thrive if I am gone. It gives me indescribable satisfaction that you need me so much, I'm not trying to deny you that. I'm not demanding you be _okay_ with my untimely demise, should that come to pass, immediately, I just...I don't want you to become me. I wouldn't wish the circumstances of my existence on anyone, but you least of all. You are so much _better_ than that, John, however many faults you perceive in yourself." He didn't know how to say it so it didn't sound so brusque and demanding, but he felt strongly enough on the matter he couldn't let it just go. He hoped John would understand the nuance of what he was saying. John closed his eyes and sighed. Sherlock's gaze had become too much. 

"I see it, what you're saying, and I know you want it to be true." He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, not allowing his body to even _think_ about causing tears to well up. "The thing is, life makes people softer. Even when it shouldn't, it does. I know you had confidence in me, and I know you couldn't have known what would happen to me in the interim. I'm...I'm sorry I wasn't as strong as you thought I was. I wish I could have been. I think, if you had actually been dead, after everything that happened I might have gone on. But...if I lost you again, it would be a very, very long time before I could be okay. Maybe it would even take the rest of my life. And I'm sorry for that." Sherlock's face fell and he took John's head in his hands.

"You don't have to apologise. And contrary to what you think, you were _exactly_ as strong as I expected of you. Were it anyone else, were it _me_ , I'd have given up in your place ages ago. Before Mary, before _me,_ before Afghanistan...it's almost superhuman, your ability to get up and make yourself functional again. There aren't many things I have faith in, but _you_ , John Watson, are at the top of that list. Inexhaustible faith. All I'd ever ask is that you'd try. For me. Because I know that's enough." John let out a weary sigh and leant over to kiss Sherlock slowly and thankfully.

"Okay," he agreed quietly. "I'd try. For you and for me." Privately, his little insecurities wormed their way into his head, and he hoped he hadn't sounded overly needy or broken or, God forbid, _weak_ , because some part of him still didn't want Sherlock thinking of him in that way. But another part, a new part, one which was mostly unwelcome by the rest of him but which was fighting for existence and growing cautiously nonetheless, was becoming okay with being vulnerable again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I know this has recently become relevant on Tumblr, I will explain here re: Mary and dying in childbirth. It's very true there is no canonical cause of death for Mary Morstan from ACD; however literary/historical critics assume that given the time period and her gender, the two MOST LIKELY causes of death would have been either tuberculosis or childbirth. So that's where that comes from, if you were wondering! ^_^


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends!
> 
> Okay, so we're introducing a recurring thing in this chapter. With it comes TRIGGER WARNINGS for the following:
> 
> child abuse  
> mention/tripping of triggers (mostly purposefully)  
> usage/mention of safewords (outside of a sexual context)  
> anxiety issues  
> mention of self-harm  
> and for lack of a better summary, an element of vague bdsm themes (though again outside of a sexual context)
> 
> These warnings will be in effect (to a certain extent) for this chapter and at least the next one. What is introduced here and continues into the next chapter will occur again as part of narrative later on. I will reissue these warnings, of course, when they become relevant again.
> 
> Please don't hesitate to let either of us know if we need to add additional trigger warning tags as part of this. Both of us are sympathetic to the need of trigger warnings for certain things in our own lives - that's part of what has brought this fic into creation in the first place.

Sherlock's face, despite the abuse it had taken last night, was nonetheless feeling better, so he braved nuzzling against the side of his partner's face with minimal wincing.

"Thank you," he murmured into John's ear. Sherlock had noted how close to tears John had been because of their discussion, and though he wasn't sure exactly how to proceed, decided a bit of extra comfort was required. "You're a good man, John; courageous and fair and kind. And you have an excellent sense of purpose and responsibility...but you don't need it _all_ the time. You are more than allowed a moment or two to need something yourself. I take without question from you and in selfish quantities, while you make yourself do without because of my limitations and your insistence you don't need it." He looked up at John. "I had to _tell_ you last night to take what you wanted. Partially because you were afraid of it, and also because you steadfastly refuse to demand anything. And as I understand it, that's not how a proper relationship is supposed to work. So allow me to make myself clear: I fear absolutely nothing from you, and I will never tell you no if there is something you unequivocally need or want. Ask, if it makes you feel you filled some requisite politeness, but don't deny yourself." John couldn't help but feel a little stab of humour in response to Sherlock's words.

"Leave it to you to seamlessly dissect my worst insecurity," he joked quietly, reaching gentle hands up to cradle the edges of Sherlock's face. "Somewhere, deep down, I really do know that you don't care if I need something occasionally. It's more a problem with me, just because I've never needed anyone before. I've never been this...dependent, I s'pose." He hesitated, then ferociously began to backpedal. "That's not to say, of course, that I fall apart every second you're not there, it's just...I take comfort and relief in knowing you're in my life. But it's my problem. I'm not used to it, but that doesn't mean I'll never be." Sherlock smiled.

"I know you don't do that, John. And I feel much the same way. I just think you need reminding every once and again that it's fine. Ironic, coming from me, but if I don't do it no-one will." He wrapped his arms loosely around John's waist and pressed his head into the other man's chest. "And perhaps you haven't considered that I _want_ that sort of thing from you, too. Make myself feel useful," he said as he smiled into John's skin, closing his eyes.

John was so warm and comfortable, his skin impossibly soft and inviting. In spite of himself his mouth began wandering John's torso, lower lip dragging against his skin. His palms splayed wide at the small of John's back, pressing in just enough to pull them together just that little bit more while Sherlock kept up his slow, meandering kisses. Fingers found their way into Sherlock's thick curls, gentle and unassuming but nonetheless appreciative.

"Perhaps I haven't considered that," John agreed, voice quieter and sweeter as he let himself become pliant in Sherlock's arms. "I'll work on it. I will. And I thank you for all the future reminders you know I'll need, because though you claim to be only human, I still have my suspicions that you can actually read my mind." He snickered a little to himself, pressing his fingers into the back of Sherlock's head in a subconscious desire to be closer.

“ _T_ _hat_ is nonsense, John. Otherwise I'd have realised what was going on between us years ago," he muttered into the other man's sternum.

He stood and pressed his forehead into John's, turned the two of them around and sat him back down on the bed, switching their places entirely. Deft fingers dipped just underneath the elastic of the other man's boxers and pulled down suggestively; John sat up just enough so they could continue their journey down to pool at his feet. Unsurprisingly, John wasn't hard as of yet - that would change. Sherlock himself wasn't particularly interested in having sex with John and achieving his own orgasm at the moment. The phrase _thoroughly fucked out_ came to mind, but nonetheless he wanted _John_. A hand stroked the inside of a thigh while Sherlock kept kissing at what he could reach of John's stomach, working inexorably downward.

_This_ was what John had been talking about. Sherlock's ability to go from quick-witted intelligence to impossible enticement was maddening, to say the least, and John had difficulty controlling himself enough to make Sherlock work for a reaction. The thought from before that Sherlock _wanted_ John to need him again flashed through his head, so he leant back and let out a soft but pitched little huff as the other man's long and elegant hand stroked the sensitive inside of his thigh. His leg had twitched slightly at the contact, but he willed his thighs to relax open slightly more, subtly begging for that mouth.

Sherlock hummed satisfactorily into John's stomach and transplanted his mouth onto his thighs. He got close to the joint of John's leg and hip and sucked hard - leave a small reminder of himself while John was away, just for the two of them. He backed off, then, to the wider, meatier part of his right leg, kissing and nipping at the insides of it till it radiated and John was whimpering above him. He only just dabbed the tip of his tongue to the head of John's dick as he switched legs as a promise for more. As he go to work on the opposite, he let a hand wander up John's chest and thumb mindlessly at a nipple just for that extra bit of sensation.

"If only you could know you fantastic you taste," he breathed when he took a short break, nestling his forehead in the wiry curls of his lover's pubic hair.

John could practically feel his own pupils dilating as Sherlock got to work on those sensitive zones, supplying the man with a healthy amount of mewling to urge him on and also simply because he couldn't seem to shut up. He arched his back and inhaled loudly at the sudden tongue to his head, and sank back down in hazy bliss when Sherlock switched legs. He barely had the mind to comprehend the other man's affectionate and highly arousing words, and his body rewarded him with a hot shiver down his spine when they finally registered. A hand slipped from Sherlock's hair to stroke with slow fingers along the outside cheek, and his clouded gaze shifted downward in a silent, adoring 'I love you'. Sherlock just caught John staring down at him in his periphery. Struck by the expression, he abandoned what he was doing and stood on his knees as John bent down to kiss him, tongue tracing the inside of his upper set of teeth. When the parted, he pulled a bit at John's lower lip in enticement.

"Love you, too." With that he backed off entirely and dropped his head to lap slowly up the other man's shaft. "Don't think I'll ever have enough of you like this," he panted before taking his length far as he could in one fell swoop.

"Oh, Christ." The words came out as choked, clunky sounds in the back of John's throat as Sherlock took him in nearly all the way. His toes involuntarily curled and he dug his nails lightly into the pale skin behind Sherlock's jaw, just enough to let him know that this was good, very good, oh so good. He shuddered and tried to pull his legs apart even more to make himself more available to his lover, but somehow he knew Sherlock would have no trouble giving the exact right amount of attention between his legs. Sherlock stayed where he was for a few moments, lightly sucking before it became a bit too much and he had to start pulling off. As he did, though, he pointed his tongue and ran it along the underside with a minutia of pressure. He pressed the head against the roof of his mouth, just able to feel John leaking precome from the tip. Pointless though it was in this context, Sherlock liked the added twist of sharp flavour it added to the experience.

He dropped down again and slathered a swollen tongue up the underside again, dragging his lower lip behind for added effect. John was staring at him with incredulity - he _really_ must appear the most openly lascivious John had ever seen him, jaw slackened against his dick and all but drooling on it. His eyebrow twitched up in amused acknowledgement before he dove down on him again, not as far but with greater suction this time. A hand wound its way up and gripped the base firmly, ready to start a slow, easy rhythm.

It was really taking John all his concentration not to come. John, who'd done this countless times before and should know what to expect. John, who'd worked up impressive stamina and could hold off until his female partners achieved orgasm before he allowed himself to do so. John, who was now putty in this man’s hands - or to put it more accurately, mouth.  
Because he’d never been sucked off in the army, he barely remembered his drunken night at the club, and all the women who’d pleasured him were cleaner. Sometimes perhaps incredibly sexy, but always so put together. Not Sherlock. No, Sherlock, the mad hatter, dove right in, unafraid to get open and sloppy and downright indecent, and that was more arousing to John and said more about him than he probably wanted to admit. He was heaving now, every exhale producing a loud whine, spine curling and back arching and body writhing as if it had a mind of its own.

Sherlock took a moment to smirk victoriously with just the head in his mouth, enjoying the sight of John wiggling with repressed lust. Having had a satisfactory share of that, he returned to the matter at hand, dropping his head down and meeting his hand halfway. He went through a few turns of this at a laid-back pace, but it became increasingly obvious John wasn’t in a position for a slow, rounded experience. Oh well. He pulled up to the tip again and held there for just a moment, building just that last little bit of anticipation. It was interesting to Sherlock how John never wanted something fast-paced or frenetic – he preferred heavy-handed and bold. So he curled his lips over his teeth and dropped again, pressing down on his length with his mouth as well as adding in his customary vacuum. The whole of John in his mouth and hand twitched - Sherlock _loved_ when it happened. He kept up his strong approach with as much speed as he felt he could control. It wasn’t exactly quick, but it _was_ certainly relentless. John, for his part, felt like he was drowning in the best sort of way. He could literally feel his lungs stuttering inside his chest as they gasped for the air he felt he'd never have enough of, and finally he abandoned the futile practice altogether and took to holding his breath for long bouts seconds at a time. This, of course, made him quieter until his feet curled uncontrollably, and he couldn't hold out any longer. He threw his head back, thrust shallowly into Sherlock's mouth, and let out the held breath in a drawn-out cry as he came.

It wasn't, perhaps, something he should be intensely proud of, but nonetheless he was - for the first time, Sherlock took John's load in its entirety, no gagging or backing off. He was growing much better at appreciating John's bodily cues, to the extent he anticipated the thrusting and adjusted accordingly. As he gulped down the last of it, he clambered back up John's body and kissed along his jawline, his still-hungry tongue trailing lazily against the skin as he did so. He was just _so_ irresistible, endlessly consumable by all his senses, and there was so much unconquered territory when he thought about it. He'd become so inured with the traditional erogenous zones he hadn't done much exploration to find more. That simply _must_ change at some point. His advance drove the two of them clumsily back onto the mattress and John melted into the pillows at the head of the bed. He recalled his experimentation their first night together; perhaps an encore was in order at some point in the future. It didn't matter when - they had forever ahead of them. The thought drove Sherlock mad with uncharacteristic giddiness, causing him to wrap his arms around the other man panting and recovering against the pillows in a tight embrace.

It was probably highly unattractive, but Sherlock was just so unpredictable - John hadn't had time to even process what had just happened before he was being kissed and licked and tugged into an impossibly close embrace, and all he could do was swallow back a snort of surprise (well, he hadn't really regained his breath yet).

"Ngh, you..." He gave up after that. Words apparently didn't go well with afterglow. In reality, if he'd kept talking, he'd probably revert back to army-day expletives with fervour, as that was the only language he seemed capable of forming at the moment. So he stayed quiet, merely showing his gratitude for the wholly unfathomable experience he'd just had with weak-limbed pets and lazy smiles. He might never be able to look at Sherlock again without picturing himself sliding lasciviously in and out between those perfect lips. He clung tight to Sherlock's body and buried his face in the crook of his neck, his own skin flushed and sweating as compared with the comfortable cool of the other. Sherlock settled in on top of John, breathing in his softening scent as the sweat and flushing and hormones began to die off.

"When you get home," he began, speaking softly into John's ear. "I was hoping to try something out with you. As part of your trust and control issue. I wanted to tell you now, so it isn't a surprise later, but promise me you won't dwell on it all day." He carded fingers through John's hair on the far side of his head, for all intents and purposes having turned into an overly affectionate cat curled around his favourite companion, unwilling to let them move or operate on their own schedule. It was only late morning, and John had all afternoon to get his silly, pointless paperwork done. They could have a few more minutes. Initially, his stomach flipped uneasily at the mention of his issues, but John eventually nodded.

"Promise," he responded in a gravelly tone, a remnant from his transcendent state hardly a few seconds before. He curled strong arms around the other man's waist, keeping him snug against him as his fingers trailed down the contours of Sherlock's spine. His breathing eventually levelled out and his heart rate slowed to its customary, slightly-slower-than-normal beat. The sweat had begun to dry and the fever wore off so that John now needed Sherlock for warmth. But that was all right, because the other man seemed to have no intention of moving off him anyway. "You are so feline sometimes it's ridiculous," he murmured. Sherlock closed his eyes and revelled in the sensation of John's calloused fingers running across the peaks of his vertebrae.

"Cats are admirable enough creatures, so I will take that as a compliment," he huffed in reply. As they sat, Sherlock began drawing shapes on John's sternum mindlessly. "And you'll be fine, John, I swear to you. Actually, as part of that - might as well get it out of the way now - you should come up with a safeword." That had been of particular note in his reading last night. He'd never considered the usage of such a thing in a context like this, but it was rather ingenious. All of the potential of following through without fear of going a bridge too far without noticing. "I leave it up to you, since it's yours." He turned John's head with a hand and gave him a small smile of encouragement.

A deep frown set in John's features as he looked over at Sherlock, the uneasiness settling in again. _Get a hold of yourself, John. He hasn't even touched you yet. In fact, he's trying to make things as safe as possible for you. Stop being such a git and let this happen._ He gave a small, curt nod and thought of things in his life that reminded him of safe places. A smile crept across his face.

"Crossword."

Sherlock blinked at the odd choice, but nonetheless nodded.

"Crossword it is." He took to smoothing a hand in circles on John's stomach, hoping to ease his obvious anxiety. He sat up on an elbow so he could kiss John easily. "Everything will be at your pace. Nothing will happen that I don't have your permission to do, and you'll be able to revoke it at any time, no questions asked. Do you want me to explain now, or when you're home later?"

The light kiss was like a tonic to John's system, and h suecked in a breath when they broke away. He let it out slowly, focusing on the soothing, circular touch against his stomach. His eyes lifted to the ceiling and his brows knitted together. His gaze focused on one spot, then another, then another, flitting between random blank patches on the ceiling faster and faster in a nervous pattern. Fear was an emotion Sherlock hated seeing in John for a number of reasons, the first being the obvious: he didn't enjoy knowing John wasn't happy and, in cases like this, suffering needlessly. And second, because it made _Sherlock_ feel distinctly unsafe. John, for all his issues and damage, was still his rock, and however irrational it was to share that fear, he did anyway just by virtue of the fact it scared John - and if it frightened _him_ , well....

"Nnnow," John began, then: "No, later. No, now." He gave a final nod, looking uncertainly back to Sherlock. "Now."

Sherlock sat up entirely and splayed a hand across John's chest, staying close but not smothering the other man.

"I intend to try acclimating you to my presence without seeing me. There will be a number of steps, depending on how well you respond. We'll start simply - you will sit in my lap, back to me, eyes open. I'll occasionally ask for your level of anxiety on a scale of one to ten. Slowly but surely I will remove sensory feedback from you - talking, touching, bodily presence, and move towards intermittent interaction. If we do well enough, I may blindfold you. But that remains to be seen. How does that sound?" he asked slowly, making sure to keep his expression open and inviting. Even this would only happen at John's say-so.

John made sure to keep his face expressionless. He knew Sherlock wanted to help him, so he tried to focus on that. Removing anything of Sherlock from John was undesirable, and the mention of a blindfold made his heart stutter in his chest, but unpleasant things sometimes required doing. He decided this was one of those unpleasant things. Besides - it was really more about _how_ unpleasant it was. And Sherlock had allowed him a safe word, to be used at any time for any reason, right? He managed to keep settled and took a minute or two to respond, making sure to gather his faculties into a calmed state.

"Okay," he conceded, looking at Sherlock to let the other know he was serious despite his wavering voice. Sherlock straddled John in one slow movement and took his face in his hands.

"You are safe with me. I will take care of you. This is also why I told you to let yourself have this sort of thing, because it will test you, make you uncomfortable - in short, affect you. Viscerally. That's how these things work. Whatever extreme of emotion you may hit from this, I _understand_ and will help you." This, again, was as his reading instructed him: explain firmly yet reassuringly, without falsehood, even if the truth was unpleasant, because if you lied, it would do more damage when it was discovered later. Remind them that you are there _to help_ , and will do anything to do so. He wasn't sure if it was because Sherlock had practically enveloped him with his body, or his gaze was just that familiar that it relaxed him, but John seemed to settle.

"You understand," he repeated, the first time simply absorbing the words. "You understand," he said again, this time reaffirming Sherlock's words in his mind and showing the man above him that John believed him. "It won't be easy," he felt compelled to warn, just to cover his bases and let _Sherlock_ know what was coming. John himself hadn't ever dug this far into his anxiety, even with therapists. He'd never had the opportunity to try overcoming it in an intimate setting. But he trusted Sherlock with his life. That, at least, for now, was enough.

"I hardly expect it to be," Sherlock replied easily. This wasn't the same as curing the limp. In a way, the fact that had been psychosomatic, subconscious, made it significantly easier. And though John's anxiety was technically subconscious and reactionary as well, it was the product of years of learned behaviour, grown uncontrollable over time rather than intrinsically so. "And I don't expect to be completely successful in one go. This will take time, John, and it is all time I am willing to invest. For your benefit, as well as my latent curiosity in the matter."

No point in hiding that sentiment; John knew that was motivating him as well. That had been his primary motivation that first night at Angelo's, too: _I wonder if I can cure that limp. I know enough about him, his motivations. I bet I could._ Sherlock knew infinitely more about John now, nearly six years later, but he wasn't sure how much good that would do in this arena. He bent down and kissed John's hairline.

"I'll leave it at that for now. You have places to be." Between the conversation about marriage and this one, John had indeed given Sherlock much to occupy his mind with while he was away. Given how violent John's reaction simply talking about the experiment had been, clearly an even more conservative approach was required than he'd originally thought. Though he was rather glad to be given an excuse to get off the subject, being reminded of his responsibilities wasn't much better, and John grumbled a bit.

"Fine," he muttered, knowing that if he protested, he'd never get out of bed. Sitting up, he scooted Sherlock back into his lap and kissed him slowly, bringing his hands up to cup Sherlock's face. "You are amazing. Thank you."

He hoped Sherlock understood he wasn't just referring to the mind-blowing oral sex he'd received, but all the talk about helping and taking care of him, as well. Because he knew Sherlock really did want to help, even if the experiment still sounded scary, so John would try to let it happen. He slipped out from under the other man, swinging his feet off the bed and stretching a bit before standing. Then his boxers were pulled back on, and a customarily very John outfit was chosen and slipped into, complete with knit jumper and all.

"I'll be back in a few hours," he called behind him as he stepped out of the bedroom and put on his coat by the door. Sherlock leant out the doorway to his room to see John off.

"Okay. I love you," he offered as a goodbye.

John grinned at him and headed down the stairs. The door to the street thudded shut, and Sherlock stretched slowly, mindful of potential discomfort. And what _marvellous_ discomfort it was. Turning around, he walked into the bathroom and started up the shower. As he waited, he took a look at himself in the mirror. The bruising on his face had lightened a bit, and was growing green along the edges. He curled his lip - not entirely attractive, but John didn't seem to mind. The cut on his lip was still a bit swollen, but would disappear in a day or two. He turned his head - _wow_ , John had done a number on his ear. Tiny dotted lines of teeth marks were just visible on the inside of the shell, and had darkened a bit in bruising. It really hadn't hurt all the much at the time, so he was rather surprised at the damage...but he'd been rather distracted. His fingers on the counter curled a bit, remembering what had happened in ornate detail. Never had he been gladder for his excellent memory. He hadn't been interested at all in getting himself off while going down on John, but now, in the midst of recollection, he thought perhaps he'd missed an opportunity. No matter - that's what showers were for, right?

~

John was in a cab in minutes, speeding down the street toward the hospital. He sat back and smiled out the window, hips subconsciously shifting against the seat to feel that bruise near his joint, the one Sherlock had specifically made just so John would have something to remember the coupling. And instead of marking John for the world to see, as if some jealous, childish lover, he'd chosen a spot only the doctor would know it ever even existed. The fact that it was underneath his clothes made it all the more intimate and deliciously dirty. He stepped into the building with this thought in mind, walking with a certain spring in his step he didn't normally possess. He greeted the receptionist and Sarah on his way in, shutting the door and setting to work diligently on the stack of paperwork he had yet to complete for the week.

~

Sherlock slipped into the shower, reveling in the steamy heat of the water. His reminiscent mind conveniently reminded him of the time he and John had been in the shower together, finally tipping him over the edge of patient chastity and driving him to take himself in hand. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd done something like this; he suspected since they had last lived together - not a pleasant reminiscence. So he returned his thoughts to last night instead, body seeming to ache anew as he recalled every thrust, every clawing grip, every nip of teeth. Needless to say it didn't take him very long. He pressed his feverish head to the tile briefly, smirking lecherously at the thought of John chastising him for not letting him do the honour. A palm spread across the wall sensually, pretending the hard ceramic under his touch was firm, warm, tanned skin – maybe he could get close if he closed his eyes and concentrated. This little exercise was giving one very important lesson - being apart from John any extended length of time (without the threat of his bodily harm in this case, of course) was a new level of challenging.

Once out of the shower and dressed in a simple t-shirt, sweats and customary dressing gown, he snatched up his phone and smirked at it.

_Thought of you in the shower. Results suggest even my rich imagination is inferior to your actual presence. You should be flattered. -SH_

~

It had been only a little while into his stack of paperwork when John's phone inevitably buzzed. He smirked and finished the form he was working on before picking it up - he'd been wondering when Sherlock would text him, though actuality suggested the man had a higher boredom tolerance than he'd thought - ah. Of course. He'd been in the shower. John lifted an eyebrow at the wording, lightly rolling his eyes and knowing Sherlock would have probably imagined him doing that when he wrote it.  
  
 _I'm beside myself. -JW_  
  
He set his phone down to work - you have to _work_ , John - and he tried, he honestly did. The magnetic pull of the world's only consulting detective was just so strong, he found himself glancing every so often over at his phone in the far corner of his desk. And thinking about Sherlock, in the shower, water running over him, flushed and short of breath -  
  
"Hullo, John!" Panic flooded through him and he twisted his legs shut to surreptitiously hide the slight bulge, for once glad he was confined to a desk. He managed a small smile.  
  
"Hi, Sarah."  
  
"Finished with the papers on Larry Finster's coronary bypass yet?" she inquired, sweet face quirked slightly in amusement at his apparent surprise.  
  
He cleared his throat. "Ahm, no, not yet. I'll have them to you in fifteen."  
  
"No rush, I just need to enter them in the system before twelve." He nodded at her, and she nodded back at him. With a curious smile, she popped her head back out the door and he let out a sigh, slumping over onto the messy desk. He picked up his phone.  
  
 _You are going to be the death of me. -JW_

_~_

Sherlock's phone went off while preparing himself a rudimentary breakfast of toast and jam. He smirked at the textual eyeroll laid into John's word choice. He'd finished his food and moved on to disposing the toes in the fridge (he'd have to start the whole experiment over anyway, since John's disappearance) when his phone rumbled against the table again. He gave another smirk, this one laced with considerable mischief.

_Oh, did I get you into trouble, thinking of me calling for you? Me, imagining the feel of your skin against mine? Whatever happened to that soldier's discipline? For shame, John. -SH_

Oh,  _this_  was going to make for a fun new distraction for the foreseeable future when they were apart. Toes taken care of, he raised a critical eyebrow as he scanned the flat for something to do. His eyes fell on the sink, abandoned last night and water long since gone stone cold. He drained it and figured he started the damned thing, so he might as well finish it. An evil smile lit his face as he waited patiently for John's reply. Because he would, if for no other reason than to tell Sherlock off. He paused a moment in consideration - perhaps he  _liked_  that from John, being told off. Hardly anyone else ever had the courage to do so. He pondered its potential status as a legitimate kink (certainly not a fetish - it wasn't  _that_  big of a deal) as he cleaned.

~

John was finished with the Finster paperwork and was handing it off to Sarah by the time he received a reply. Despite the knowledge that it wasn't wise, he couldn't help checking his phone outside the safety of his office out of sheer poisonous curiosity. His eyebrows shot up and he stared at the screen out of shock for a good few moments. After that wore off, though, he quietly made his way back to his office to resume his paperwork. No one saw him patiently tapping away at his phone as he closed the door of his office.  
  
 _Soldier's discipline still intact. If you don't quit baiting me, though, I just might have to spread you out over a table and prove it. -JW_

_~_

 

Sherlock was elbow deep in soapy water when his phone seized on the counter next to him. Snickering to himself, he dried his arm off and checked the message. An eyebrow quirked in response, and he stared at the ceiling for a moment in contemplation. 

_I'd be more than willing to accommodate you at work. I've been contemplating the extent to which I find your propensity for scolding me arousing - this would make an excellent test, wouldn't you say? I'd be sure to be extra loud to get you, and by extension me, in as much trouble as possible. Knowing your preferences, I'd be sure it was your name I was screaming, of course. Think about that - me, spread-eagle, wet and begging for you. Can't stay mad at that for long, can you? -SH_

He openly cackled as he sent the text and went back to finishing the dishes.

~

John had gotten about halfway through his paperwork when he finally edged over to the corner of his desk to see what reply awaited him. He flushed bright red and swallowed dryly, infinitely glad that at that particular moment no one chose to pop in and check on him. He was now undeniably half hard and readjusted himself to appear less suspicious, swearing quietly under his breath even though no one was in the vicinity to hear him.  
  
 _Fuck - you win, for now. It won't do to see patients with a hard-on. -JW_

It took some time for John to reply but it was worth it for hearing him admit defeat. Sherlock had since finished the dishes and started composing for lack of anything better to physically occupy himself with. He did need to think, however, and composing always helped. John's condition was something to be pondered heavily before any real action was taken. The texting ( _sexting_ , he thought with distaste at the irritating but nonetheless accurate colloquialism) had provided a two-fold benefit: amusing Sherlock, as well as keeping John appropriately relaxed and distracted from what was awaiting him when he got home. It was better to let the fun go now, rather than rile him up just to be put in a highly emotionally vulnerable place. His eyes fell to his scarf hanging with his coat...that _would_ make an effective blindfold, wouldn't it?

_You'll extract recompense from me somehow, I'm sure. Leave the plebeians to their empty worrying over a sore throat and come home. -SH_

John would never do so, of course, but Sherlock decided it would be terribly out of character not to try and cajole him at least a little bit. After further consideration, he bit his lip and tapped out another message.

_Love you. -SH_

It looked...strange, written on his own phone screen voluntarily, but he found himself unable to deny the sentiment, nor the burgeoning smile accompanying it.

~

John smiled at Sherlock's obligatory appeal for him to come home, shaking his head fondly. He'd just turned his attention back to his stack of paperwork when his phone buzzed again, and he almost decided to let it be. Oh, was he glad he didn't, though, because when he picked it back up a shining smile spread across his face, one he was sure would only ever come as a result of Sherlock saying those words. It was fitting, then, that he should be alone when it came, because the smile was really only meant for Sherlock anyway.  
  
 _Love you too. JW_  
  
With that, he dug into his pile of papers with renewed vigour. That didn't mean the work went much more quickly, but there was a certain snappiness that made the time at least seem shorter. He finally finished a few hours later, in the lazy light of the afternoon, and neatly filed them for the receptionist, glad to be of use. He then politely informed the woman that he would not be in for a few days including Tuesday, and was going on a holiday sometime in the upcoming weeks.  
  
 _Done. Finally. Home after supermarket. -JW_

_~_

Sherlock snatched his phone up before it could even stop buzzing on the windowsill next to where he was playing. He gave it only a small, reserved smile before returning to what he was doing. Maybe he should start doing that more often - easily he could picture the grin John would have in response to it each time. Torrid and disgusting show of sentiment it was, Sherlock thought perhaps it was called for once in a while, just for John. He continued playing violin for an hour until that amusement of that exhausted itself, so he defaulted to dissolving odd, unimportant bits of this and that in acid to occupy himself for a while. The gun in the lockbox was beginning to become an attractive prospect when he realised he had yet to delve into a book he'd picked up on forensic botany. In an extra bit of luck, it even managed to be an interesting, illuminating read that he was still working on when another text came in.

_Excellent. You'll be impressed - I managed to recreate the spiral of the Golden Ratio on the wall with bulletholes. Quite an achievement, getting the curl just right. -SH_

_~_

John sighed at the response he received when he stepped out of the cab and into the harshly illuminated supermarket. He texted as he walked. He was sure Sherlock would be able to imagine the exact mix of fondness and irritation laced in one word.  
  
 _Nutter. -JW_  
  
He'd probably yell at his maddeningly genius lover for it sometime later, but for now, he had a grocery list to remember. He picked up both boysenberry and strawberry jam, feeling in the mood to choose over the next few weeks instead of eating the same boring thing one day after another. It wasn't just Sherlock that got bored of routine, though John had a distinct feeling that was simply the human condition, and it didn't make him special. He selected the milk easily and made his way to the cash register, somehow ending up with a box of jammie dodgers in his arms as well as his other items. 

Fifteen minutes later, John Watson shuffled up the step with his two bags of groceries, fiddling with the keys for a moment before finally getting the bloody door open. He made his way slowly up the stairs, not wanting to come this far with the shopping only to trip and have it all fly out of his hands - which _had_ happened before, once or twice. Not that John would ever admit to it. When arrived at the top of the steps without incident, he pushed the door to the flat open and promptly moved into the kitchen to put away the groceries.

"So where exactly did this Golden Ratio end up?”

Sherlock's eyes shot up to the door as he heard a dull thud - John was home. He stood as the other man entered and followed him into the kitchen.

"Nothing? Not even a 'damn it, Sherlock'? Disappointing. Maybe I'll  _actually_  do it next time." He slipped a hand into the nearest bag and pulled out...jammie dodgers? Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook his head before depositing them on the counter. John had his particulars about where things went, so Sherlock left him to it, brushing him with a simple, thoughtful hand at the small of his back. 

Whereas the gentle hand at the small of his back might cause John to think he had a spider on him, he knew that pressure and shape, and instead of alarming him it relaxed him. He shelled out the two jam jars and the carton of milk, the latter going promptly in the fridge next to...were those acidic fingers? What had Sherlock been up to while he was gone? Always a dangerous question, and one he didn't often allow himself to ponder too much, for his own sake of mind, so John didn't dwell on it. Instead he finished putting the few items away and spun around to face the taller man. He leaned up and placed a light but promising kiss to those pink, plump lips, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips when he pulled away.

"That was quite a stunt you pulled while I was at the office."

Sherlock gave an innocent shrug.

"Idle hands and all of that," was all he offered in response. He took John by the hips and kept him close. "You seemed to appreciate it well enough." A hand drifted up and down one side of John's back - not suggestive, just enjoying having the other man back in reach again. "As for the fridge - I was bored, so I dissolved some materials in acid. I assumed you'd prefer that to actually burning something. See?" he said mirthfully, "I can be plenty conscientious." He'd been mistaken in the shower earlier; he hadn't come  _close_  to re-imagining the feel of John. Even with clothes still on Sherlock could tell how off he had been. That just meant he needed more data samples to be accurate, he supposed. But still he reined in the bit of compulsion. John's eyes crinkled in subtle amusement as the small smile on his lips grew.

"I never said you couldn't," John defended himself, but only half-heartedly; Sherlock knew his own shortcomings and sensitivity to hazards was not one of them. Very slightly his expression shifted, and the way he held his chin up to level his gaze with Sherlock became less easy and more defiant in his resolve. "So what's this about your experiment, then?" He kept his voice neutral and curious; it was easy enough, and best to mention it now rather than having it hang over both their heads. Sherlock nodded self-consciously.

"As I mentioned earlier, it would be an acclimation exercise. Testing how and under what circumstances you become anxious by triggering events and bringing you back down again. We'd start simple and work our way up, hopefully breaking your compulsion towards fear - at least, with me. It's a technique used in treating obsessive-compulsive disorder. Put them in the presence of something that irks their particular compulsion, stew in it for some time and measure anxiety level as it peaks and eventually drops as they realise nothing will happen to them. That would be on a scale of one to ten; one being completely normal, and so forth. And in your case, if things become too drastic, you would say your safeword. But all of this is presupposed on your consent. By all means, I can simply work around potentially triggering your anxiety instead. Now that I know it can happen, I will pay much closer attention and likely see it coming long before you ever know it. Your choice." He brought up a hand to John's face and smoothed a thumb across his cheekbones reassuringly.

John chewed on his bottom lip at the mention of anxiety and disorders, but remained quiet as Sherlock finished explaining. He took in a deep breath, then let it out in the same counts as he'd taken it in. Sherlock was...he was simply so understanding. Almost too understanding. John knew not to distrust Sherlock - he wasn't that big of a fool - but if it had been anyone else, he might have grown to expect the day when he'd betray that trust. Instead, he nodded assuredly and placed his hands at Sherlock's hips to let the other man know of his solidity in the matter.

"I'll try it."


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo~
> 
> The TRIGGER WARNINGS I enumerated in the notes at the beginning of chapter 15 are still in effect! Please check the notes there if you didn't read them before or don't remember what they were specifically.

Sherlock nodded mutely, having gone very sombre. The hand at John's face reached up and into his hair to gently run across his scalp.

"Whatever happens, I admire your courage in making the attempt. You are an impossibly strong man." He kissed the top of his head and walked off. "Bedroom seems most comfortable, yes?" he called back as he snatched the aforementioned scarf off the hook. He returned to find John sitting on the bed, looking a bit strained. Sherlock crouched in front of him. "Along with rating your anxiety, if you're amenable, I would like to ask you what specifically is bothering you, if it's memories of the past, or physical cue like the way you're sitting or _whatever_. Think it through, talk it down together. Logic, John, that's what this essentially is."

John swallowed dryly and frowned, his face setting into an expression of deep thought. Naturally as he sifted through the aforementioned memories, his expression morphed into a slight look of disturbed intent as he tried to focus on the matter at hand. He tried to convey with his body language that he was ready for this, but the truth of the matter was he _wasn't_ entirely ready for this. He never would be but then, he supposed, that was the point.

"Okay. You want to know my anxiety level. Two. Right now, it's two." He shut his eyes, willing to get on with the experiment as well as continue to delve into the memories he'd pushed down since he was seventeen. Sherlock hummed his acknowledgement and took John's hands. "Sit back a bit," he asked, so he could join John on the bed. 

"I'm going to sit behind you," he explained slowly, "you can turn your head and look at me any time you want." He shuffled around on his hands and knees to take up position immediately behind John and pulled him in his lap. "You were fine with this our first night together, remember? What's different with this? Give me a number." He opted to not do too much touching as of yet, so as not to spook John. 

“Nothing,” John admitted, leaning tentatively back into Sherlock’s chest. To feel the slow, steady breathing behind him made John almost sleepy in his efforts to remain calm, and he exhaled as slowly as he inhaled. “Two—one. One.” He gave a firm nod, as if you make certain within himself, and settled comfortably back against Sherlock’s torso to feel that solid anchor of warmth against him. John kept his eyes closed in attempt to really get into the spirit of acclimation - this was really not very hard at all, he thought - but he was still in the familiar zone.

“Good, good,” Sherlock murmured. He slipped a hand underneath John’s jumper slowly, but without warning, and moved it up his back. It wasn’t rough in the least, but not overtly sensual. He said nothing as he did so, gauging the reaction. John definitely flinched at the unexpected touch and had gone a bit rigid in the aftermath. The hand under the jumper slid around and out from under the jumper to hold John’s torso in a half-embrace.

“Number”? he asked neutrally.

It was really very hard to John to maintain his breathing when Sherlock made moves like that, so sudden and without warning, and that irritated him. Why did he have to do that? Wasn’t it much easier if he just went slowly, or if he let John know, at least? Would that not be the courteous thing to do? At length, John got ahold of his thoughts enough to formulate a tentative answer: “Three.”

Sherlock thought it might be a bit more than that, but didn’t argue the point.

“Okay, he said soothingly, “You seem angry. That’s fine. Don’t hide it. I’m not going to hurt you.” The hand wrapped around John began turning circles on his stomach. “Tell me _why_ you’re angry. What did I do?” He wanted to kiss John, but clamped down on the sentiment. True intimacy would help more if John really started to lose it – he shouldn’t waste the resource now. John squeezed his eyes shut to concentrate, letting out a long breath as he did so.

“I thought you were going to hit me,” he explained slowly, just letting his words flow now, no filter at all. “I couldn’t see you, and I didn’t know what you were going to do.” His heart was sped up irrationally, as if silently warning him not to speak of such things he had buried, lest they bring up some sort of psychological backlash.

“Never, John,” he replied, leaning in close to speak in John’s ear. “Think of all the time we’ve spent together, all the places we’ve been and things we’ve done. Have I ever physically hurt you by my own hand with malicious intent? Discounting our fight before we met Irene I suppose,” he added off-handedly with a smirk. “I haven’t. And I won’t. The person who hurt you is gone, John. And even if he wasn’t dead, you are much stronger, smarter, and tougher than he ever was.” He continued his silent reassurance through touch. “Number.”

Hardly even aware of his own actions, John absorbed every soft, low word. Every cadence. Every slow tremble of the baritone voice. His eyelids lost their strain, becoming smooth against blue eyes that matched his mother’s and sister’s. He let out a small, contemplative hum, tilting his head slightly to incline it against the side of Sherlock’s. This time, he was much more self-assured, much more sure that it really was what he said it was when he replied, “Three.”

Sherlock wrapped both arms around John’s torso and rocked him just the slightest.

“Excellent. We’ll just sit here a moment as you level out again. What shall we try next? What makes you feel particularly vulnerable?” he asked at a low hum. Unable to restrain himself, he dropped a single, chaste kiss to the other man’s ear. John smiled at the familiar feeling of a pair of lips against his ear, but tiny goosebumps nonetheless broke out along his neck.

“Being on my knees. On the ground. Grabbing my neck like a dog. Physical…” He tried to suppress it, but he couldn’t fully keep in the small shudder that ran through his entire body. Still, this was better than it had ever been even though he as likely the most uncomfortable he’d been in years. He knew it was better because he’d never said that before, to anyone, ever.

Sherlock’s eyebrows drew together and his lip curled precipitously at John’s obviously hesitant explanation, but since he was behind John he wouldn’t notice. It was a mixed blessing the man was dead – Sherlock would have rather liked flaying him within an inch of his life. But one couldn’t have everything they wanted, could they?

“Obviously I wouldn’t be openly vicious, but we could theoretically do this in a position like you’ve described. However I would simply be touching you, no harm at all. I imagine that would be enough to trigger you, though. That said, I think that should be worked up to. You want to try the blindfold instead?” He paused for a moment, “And what were you going to say? After physical?” he asked quietly. John flinched.

Onetwothreefourfive— _stopit._ His eyes popped open.

“It doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t do that anyway, right? No, you wouldn’t, what am I saying? Of course you wouldn’t. Right? Why am I even questioning? It’s fine,” John said, speaking rapidly and voice very tight. At Sherlock’s firm grip, however, and soothing voice calming him down, he took a few moments to collect himself. “Beating. That’s what I was going to say. Just that. You already knew, and now I told you so you know for sure.” For the first time in the exercise, he invoked his right to turn his head and look at Sherlock. “I trust you.”

Sherlock spread a palm across John’s sternum in a tighter hold. What on Earth had happened to him? The change had been so fast, so disparate, Sherlock was left a little floored. John was doing extraordinarily well and recovered himself, but Sherlock could see the wideness of the cracks in his façade.

“No, I won’t. Simulating a beating serves no greater purpose. And it’s okay to question – you live expecting harm form others.” He had further questions, but decided to leave it for a bit. “So, blindfold? Are you okay to try?”

The thought of a blindfold still made him squirm internally, because it faced John with possibly his largest, ultimate fear: being forced to trust someone. Though it sounded like something that should inherently come to a person, with John, friendship was earned, so was love, and not being able to have a choice in the matter was the scariest thing he could imagine. He sucked in a deep breath. If Sherlock were to ask for a number right now, if would be seven—possibly eight.

He still nodded.

Sherlock turned to pick up the scarf and put it in his lap.

“I need a baseline. Number?” he asked. John was putting on an excellent poker face. Off the top of his head, Sherlock thought John might be at a five or six, but suspected that, again it was higher than that. They needed to discuss that before actually putting it on. It wouldn’t do to start at a peak only to go stratospheric. At the very least, he’d need to stay close at first. “I won’t back off if you don’t want to, but I need to know how you’re feeling, or I can’t control variables properly. Understand?”

Again, John nodded, pronouncing the number “eight” as delicately as possible. Despite himself, John couldn’t help feeling the anxious, nervous, giddy urge to laugh hysterically. He couldn’t do that, of course, because if he started laughing he very well may start crying, and that would not do. But the fact that through all of this, Sherlock was still _Sherlock_ , that he still treated John’s childhood trauma as an experiment with variables and hypotheses was oddly comforting to John. Perhaps he should have felt offended that the man appeared only interested in pushing John as far as he would sanely go, but then, John knew Sherlock better than that. He always knew Sherlock better than that.

Sherlock put his hands to each of John’s shoulders, comforting yet keeping a bit of distance so as to not crowd the man.

“That’s higher than I anticipated. Will you tell me why? All I’m going to do is tie it on from behind you and stay where I am until you relax. Same as before, with only one change. Why is this so much worse?” John shook a bit; though Sherlock couldn’t see his eyes, he thought perhaps John might be just shy of hysterical.

This time, John really had to think. It was hard to put a fundamental fear into words, especially one as deep-rooted and stubborn as the one embedded in John Watson. When he opened his mouth again, he hesitantly went for the demonstrative approach, hoping the other man might see his meaning or at least understand it as things when on. John gulped at that thought.

“Because I can’t just open my eyes and make it go away,” he replied in a voice that was only slightly shaking. Better; still not optimal. Sherlock slid his hands up and down John's arms soothingly.

"Okay, then I'll make an agreement with you. I will act as I see fit, asking for a number from you as I do. But if it changes too quickly or drastically, or for whatever reason you need me, just say so. Use your safeword, and we'll stop entirely; anything else, I will just stay to calm you down and then move on. Does that sound fair?" He longed to curl into the nape of John's neck with his mouth, or perhaps stroke his hair from this angle, but knowing what he did now, he didn't dare touch it. 

Slowly, John nodded and returned his gaze ahead of him, choosing a spot on the wall and staring at it determinedly. His vision soon blurred around the edges as he turned inward, focusing on his thoughts.

Things John Knows About Sherlock:

  1. He is careful when it comes to John.

  2. He is safe when it comes to John.

  3. ...He is trustworthy when it comes to John.




The doctor's gaze snapped back into focus and he inhaled with new purpose, riding a wave of confidence.

"Let's do it, then."

"Okay. I love you," Sherlock replied at just above a whisper. He pulled the cashmere scarf from his lap and put it in front of them both between two hands. Gently but nonetheless quickly he placed it over John's eyes and tied it just enough to make sure it wouldn't fall. Soon as he was done, he wrapped his arms loosely about John's torso - he didn't want to constrain John's arms for fear of making him feel trapped. Already John had gone rather rigid, so Sherlock shushed at him soothingly.

"It's just me, I'm not going anywhere until you feel more confident. Everything will be fine. Number?" He asked in a murmur.

John continued to breathe in and out deeply, shutting his eyes and pretending the darkness was just because his eyes were closed. It wasn't much use, though, as every time he opened his eyes he was reminded it was still dark. The prickly feeling all over his body wasn't so much irritation anymore as simple anxiety, but still, Sherlock was warning him of everything and he was still there. John could feel him.

"Six," he said quietly. Sherlock merely nodded next to his head, having perched his chin on John's shoulder.

"You were muttering under your breath earlier. Counting, it seemed. Why?" he asked, letting a hand rub up and down in small movements against John's stomach. It was minute, but John seemed to be beginning to relax. Good; it was only going to go back up again once Sherlock got up and moved. But he was willing to wait a bit longer to be sure John was somewhat okay again. Slightly startled, John turned his head to glance back at Sherlock only to remember that he couldn't see a thing. His breathing sped up, rapid and shallow, but his mind was able to shut down his anxiety for the most part.

"Ahm, my mum used to - when I was little, and my father was in a rage, she would tell me and Harry to go into our room, lock the door, and count as high as we could until she came back for us." Unconsciously, as he talked he began scratching lightly at his forearms.

Sherlock had to close his eyes and take a long, deep breath to minimize his reaction.  _Why_  hadn't his mother simply left with them? He ached to know the answer, but instinctively understood that this was probably not the time to start challenging his mother's parenting decisions. Besides, there was something else to consider - the scratching. Classic mark of high anxiety.

"John," he opened carefully, "there's no need to scratch at your arms." He slowly raised an arm to take one of John's hands lightly. John automatically stopped himself with a conscious brain command, almost surprised that he'd caught himself doing it.

"Take a deep breath. Are you okay? What are you at now?" Sherlock asked gently. The talking didn't appear to be helping, this time. Perhaps he was falling too far into memory with his vision obscured. He nuzzled into and kissed the side of John's face with a wince from the bruising on his own face. It  _also_  reminded him of the last time they'd sat like this, in the darkened closet, hiding from seeming imminent death. He ground his back teeth and deleted the thought. The very last thing this situation needed was  _two_  emotionally compromised people.

John twitched slightly when he felt a face nuzzle into the side of his own, as it took him a moment to realize it was just Sherlock. Why was it so hard for him to understand? There was no one else in the room - there couldn't be, so who else could be with him but the man he loved and, most importantly, trusted above all others? He let out a slight huff of a breath and his spine grew a bit more rigid in Sherlock's lap.

"Seven. Seven. I don't like it. I can see things more clearly in my head."

"Understood. So you're seeing yourself...where, in that room with your sister?"

A curt nod in response.

"Okay, then picture me entering the room. I take you and your sister's hands and when we walk out, instead of your childhood home, you're in 221B, safe and sound. We never even saw your parents - one room just lead into another." he said slowly, giving John plenty of time to conjure the image in his head. "Just think of that whenever reminiscing feels like too much. Because that's exactly what I would have done - what I _always_  will do. Come for you and take you away. You know I will; I already have before."

Inwardly, he could feel sympathy clawing at him trying to escape and manifest itself. Using the technique from yesterday, he put all of those emotions into a large, dark blue box and stored it safely away. However much he wanted to merely inundate John in an embrace and pull his fear from him, Sherlock knew it wouldn't work right now. That was for later, during the comedown. Reason was the required perspective, here - adding more peaked emotion would only make it worse.

Sherlock's soothing alternative was preferred to letting memory take over and conjure much less pleasant images. John's mind latched onto that image, playing it out in his head and finding himself to be calmer than a few moments before. He hummed long and low in his attempt to gain some semblance of control over his faculties again. It appeared successful; in another moment to himself, John's spine regained some of its natural curve and his shoulders slumped from loss of tension.

"Five." He knew Sherlock hadn't asked. He just wanted to let the other man know he was helping. Sherlock grinned in spite of himself.

" _Excellent_  job, John." He returned to a more relaxed hold around John, still holding one of his hands. A thumb pet gently at the side of it. They stayed that way for a few minutes, Sherlock feeling his partner's muscles give a little bit more at a time. He was back to hovering somewhere near a four - time for another question, then. "Is there a particular reason for the scratching, or is it just an empty impulse?" he asked, gripping John's hand a little tighter in a show of solidarity. Another sigh, and John was clenching and unclenching his fists, a much more characteristic nervous tic. But as Sherlock's hand was still sheathed in his, the tic became a rhythmic squeeze and release.

"More an impulse than anything, but I remember Harry used to cut. Wrists." He cleared his throat. "That was one of the things she was recommended to do. Pulling at a rubber band, scratching. I started doing it, too. Nervous habit."

"I see," Sherlock said, watching John's hands best he could from his current angle. Well, _that_ certainly explained the clenching he'd always done. Of course, that prompted a follow-up question, however it required a bit of preface. He adjusted his hands so they held both of John's and pulled him close.

"So Harry's self-destructive behaviour isn't simply alcoholism," he began quietly. He shut his eyes for a brief moment before speaking again. "Have _you_ ever indulged in any self-harm, John? There's no shame in that whatsoever. Completely understandable in your circumstances. It doesn't change a thing about how I perceive you. None of this does." Sherlock marvelled at how pragmatic and nonjudgmental he managed to keep his voice in asking such a loaded question. With anyone else it would be an easy question to ask, drawled with mild disinterest, but as was clearly becoming more and more obvious, John was an exception in virtually every way.

Everything suggested that John should be screwed up in such a way that manifested itself in a physical setting. And he was, to some extent - his limp and hand tremor should be evidence enough for that - but everything that happened when he was seventeen?

"No." He wasn't his sister. "I used to wonder if it would help - it seemed to help Harry. But...pain never did it for me. I guess I had too much experience with it, you know?" He inhaled. "I exercised. When things got too much, I went for a run. Used to run so hard my lungs hurt. But I always felt better." He exhaled slowly. "Endorphins. Positive hormones. Also gave me a bit of agility. You know."

"Smart. Very smart. No wonder you've always been in such excellent shape." Sherlock eased up on his grip when it seemed John's anxiety wasn't going to spike again. John hummed in response.

"No, I've been dipping into the jammie dodgers. Haven't gone for a run in ages - I expect I have a bit of a tummy." He managed a small, humorous but self-deprecating smile.

"Maybe I like you like that," Sherlock offered with a touch of geniality in his voice.

Tension still dragged on his partner, but not nearly what it was earlier. Christ, this man was nearly invincible. Sherlock hadn't expected to go this far. They hadn't easily, of course, but that just made it all the more satisfying for having won it.

"What are you at, now?" he asked.

"Three," John admitted quietly after some contemplation. "It isn't so bad anymore." He gestured to the blindfold. "I can smell you better like this. You smell good. You always do." Sherlock's smile faded back to hesitant passiveness and he squeezed John's hands.

"Concentrate on that, then. It's keener now, your sense of smell." With that, he withdrew his arms slowly and nudged himself backwards, just out of his partner's reach on the edge of the bed. "I'm still here, just a bit further away," he assured. John was clearly recoiling again, so Sherlock kept talking. "Remember what I said, John. If you need me, just ask, or say your safeword. I'll come for you. Think of it like swimming - this is merely the part I let you kick all by yourself." He didn't much care for the analogy, but it was convenient and Sherlock had bigger things to worry about than spouting intellectualisms.

John hissed out a breath, distinctly more distressed now, but he attempted to keep his wits about him. He'd need them now, especially.

"Navy. You smell navy blue." He squeaked out a nervous laugh, spine curling as he slowly brought his knees up to wrap his legs around them for some sort of huddled warmth. "Does that even make sense? Anyway, you smell dark, deep. Intense. But not...overpowering."

Swimming, huh? John pulled air into his lungs quickly and he could swear he swallowed water. Even though it didn't matter, he squeezed his eyes shut. Should he focus on other senses? What others were there? He put his hand out, smoothing his palm shakily over the expensive sheets. In spite of the moment, Sherlock smiled a bit.

"It only makes sense that my scent inspires synesthesia. I wouldn't have it any other way." John was clearly at a tipping point, and if he wanted to keep touch out of the equation, he needed a secondary plan, and quickly. "Though I've long been more partial to purples than blue. Blue is deep, dark, yes - but I always thought violets added an...almost mystical distinction to itself. Which is an odd thing to hear from me, I know, I don't typically ascribe myself to any sort of fanciful notion like _mysticism_ , but I'm allowed my moment, aren't I?"

He stood while he was talking and moved across the room so he could see John from the front, never ceasing speaking except to breathe. John often teased him about his constant running commentary and compulsion 'to be clever', but damn it if it wasn't convenient even in the most uncharacteristic situations.

"It's always been my favourite colour - that shirt you've always liked of mine, that dark purple one. It was ruined in Moscow, and I haven't been able to find a proper replacement for it." And so he continued, yammering on about his favourite colour - absolutely pointless but for the fact he was talking, and John was listening. He'd long since picked up on the fact John enjoyed the baritone of his voice, so he utilised it here in what he hoped was a soothing manner. John froze, hearing Sherlock's voice coming from a different part of the room now - was it in front of him? Or to the side? Or maybe it had never moved at all? Swimming...he felt his head was certainly swimming, but indulged in the conversation nonetheless. Because John Watson was nothing if not stubborn.

"Figures that your favourite colour is the historical symbol for royalty." He brought his arms tighter around his shins, drawing himself into a ball - take up as little space in the universe as possible, John, if you try hard enough, you'll disappear - and the sheets were completely abandoned with regard to tactile stimulus. "We'll have to look for a new one for you," he said quietly after a minute's silence, voice muffled into his knees.

"Fantastic idea. You, and me, _together_. Take me shopping long as you like. You'll get a turn parading me round in whatever suits your fancy."

Sherlock didn't move from where he stood, now that he could see John more properly. John was clearly confused by the travelling voice - no need to add to it. It took considerable willpower to keep his tone conversational and speaking speed normal, but he managed. John was the very picture of terror and repression on the bed, and it all but physically hurt to see him like that. However, inquiring after his mental state now would remind him of what was going on and almost certainly break him. He needed to come down. Considerably. So, clothes it was.

"Imagine it, John - you could get me in _jeans_. And some godawful football jersey. That can be your payback for me teasing you at work today. Whatever shirt we find will make us both happy. Win-win."

Despite himself, John let out a small chuckle. Well, it was more of a half-giggle. But he'd never admit to that. He grinned into his legs and sank his teeth absently into his kneecap in thought.

"You'd never wear jeans," he finally decided. "They're much too plebeian for you. But that would be a once in a lifetime sight to see." He laid his chin in the small dip between his pressed-together knees, staring out into familiar-smelling blue nothingness. "You don't know a damn thing about football, do you?" Again a smile played across his features, but this one was dreamier and less humorous. "That's okay. I love you _because_ you smell like navy blue and don't know a thing about football." Sherlock bit his lip and had to take a moment for himself, a bit overwhelmed by the comment.

"I understand the rules and conduct of football very well, John. I just don't care," he replied softly, familiarity soaking his tone. "And...I love you because _you_ don't care that _I_ don't care about silly normal things. And because you listen to me and appreciate what I am and celebrate it instead of looking at it as a tool, or thinking I'm just off my nut. You have no idea how validating it is to have someone who sees what I am as just...me."

He realised what he was doing and winced. He was getting emotional, letting himself be pulled in. Sympathetic, yes, but could still prove disastrous. John was on a tipping point that could go in either direction at the smallest provocation. Hopefully this one little bit of heart would play out well and cover his mistake. John's head was raised off his knees now, tilted as if he was an intelligent dog trying to figure out what the man was saying. For the first time, he was glad he was blindfolded, and the reasons were twofold: he was able to picture Sherlock's face as he heard those words exactly as he wanted, and his eyes had evidently reached their emotional floodgate threshold for the day because in the corners of them little sparkling beads of tears gathered. It was embarrassing, of course - and especially for a proud man such as John. But, paradoxically, the thing that was causing him the most anxiety was for now helping to shield him. Cautiously, with much suspicious feeling around with his flat palms on either side of him, John eventually unfurled himself and leant back to stretch out on the bed, limbs spread wide.

"Well," he said at last, managing to wrangle his voice into something resembling normal, "I'm very glad for that."

Sherlock let his shoulders sag in silent relief.

"I am, too." He covered his mouth with a hand for a minute, still not quite able to rein himself back in. "You're doing brilliantly, John. I...I'm proud of you," he said haltingly, unused to lavishing others, even John, with such praise. "You seem better. Tell me what you're at now, as well as before, when I first left. I'd like to compare."

He crossed his arms on his chest perhaps a bit more tightly than he needed to. Good lord, was _he_ going to compromise himself before John? _Absolutely ludicrous,_ he thought fondly. He had never felt so much familiarity and pride for another being in his life - and that thought did _not_ help in collecting himself.

"Eight, before." After his first obligatory answer, John paused in his breathing for a minute to soak in Sherlock's words. He didn't have any lavish mind palace as the other did - if anything, it was more of a mind...hut. Rough, simple, small, but one step inside and he could see everything he needed. As it was infinitely smaller than a palace of monumental proportions, he only saved bits and pieces of what were to him the most important things in his yet-unfinished life. Mary was there, in a corner, and so were his parents, his sister, and his childhood. So was the war. They all had their respective places in little boxes and corners, but the walls, floor, and ceiling were painted with Sherlock. And now this phrase - _I'm proud of you_ \- had earned a spot on the wall to be forever scrawled in that strong, looping Holmes handwriting. "One, now."

Sherlock had to grit his teeth, now, to assist in keeping himself together.

"I think," he said with the tiniest hitch in his tone, "that you've done more than enough today, yes?" He shook his head to clear it; however good John was right now, once released from the exercise the adrenalin would wear off and anything could happen. Sherlock needed to stay sharp in order to anticipate whatever John needed. He padded forward until he was just at the edge of the bed. "Go ahead and take it off. We'll do this again another day. Best to space it out over a bit of time. Let it sink in," he said, keeping his tone soft and easy since he had come much closer.

John nodded and sat up, pulling the scarf off his head and depositing it on the bed. His expression changed from one of peaceful contentment to minute concern, and he shifted forward until he was sitting on the edge of the bed with Sherlock standing between his legs.

"Okay?" he asked, carefully taking each of Sherlock's hands in his own and lacing them, swinging them side to side a bit to show that he really was fine for the time being; somehow, Sherlock always managed to do that. That was one thing other people just didn't understand about him. He could be petulant and impossible and frustrating and rude, but those were simply states of mind, not permanent, and at the end of it all he always managed to make John feel better. An odd smile cracked on Sherlock's features, split between outright adoring and complete fascination.

"Yes, fine. Totally fine," he replied distractedly, staring at John. "And you? If...if you need to speak further, or just want quiet or, or maybe cry...it's fine. It's all fine," he said, put off enough to not notice the tiny reference he was making and appreciate it. This man truly was remarkable. So many interesting pieces, all very well-hidden underneath an unassuming facade. Just when Sherlock was positive he had the last few phenomenon unique to John listed in his internal registry, dozens more revealed themselves to be studied further. The greatest and most perfect puzzle of his life, all wrapped up in one human being and, even more shockingly, willing to share it with him. A smile, too, spread across John's face, but it didn't have any one particular emotion attached to it but a barrage of several. Not all positive, but the ones that weren't were comparatively small and wholly unrelated to Sherlock.

"I might eventually need to do some of those things," he replied, the emotive smile still in place. "Same goes for you." The hands in Sherlock's unlaced in favour of smoothing up and down his pale arms, as Sherlock had done to John earlier. "I know I'm not the only one who's repressed in this relationship." Sherlock nodded and pulled the majority of his conscious mind back to the moment.

"I, well...helping you might, ah, help me help myself," he offered noncommittally. If this kept up, it would prove to be truer than he would ever like to admit. But that was the point, wasn't it? Breaking barriers - _Oh, stop it, Sherlock_ , he thought to himself, _It's the End of Days indeed if you ever start honestly psychoanalysing yourself._

"On your time, then. What would you like to do now?" he asked, drawn in by the colours in John's eyes. Rather than darkened like they had been the last time he'd seen John so emotional, they had lightened considerably, reminding Sherlock of frozen ice in a pond cracking under its own weight. An easy smile slid onto John's face and he shifted forward just a little, smoothing tanned hands up the sides of Sherlock's legs.

"I think I'd like to thank you for being patient and helpful with me," he replied, choosing his words carefully. His eyes glinted a bit, cleared by the few purging tears. "I noticed I hadn't returned the favour this morning." With that, the hands smoothing up Sherlock's legs rested at his hips, fingertips just barely brushing the swell of the other man's arse, and John gently pulled him further forward between his own legs. Sherlock shivered a bit at the touch and returned a hesitant smile of his own.

"Two things: I need a couple days to recover from last night, so nothing penetrative, and just to make sure: you're alright, now? I don't want you to overwhelm yourself in the name of gratitude." In spite of his serious tone, he ran a hand on the top of John's head through his hair lovingly.

"I'm fine, I'm alright," John assured him, leaning forward to nuzzle Sherlock's stomach. "And I wasn't thinking penetrative. I was thinking that it's been a while for me since I tasted you." He ran his hands up underneath Sherlock's shirt and lifted it to begin kissing at the other's lean stomach, fingers spreading over the plane of his torso. As he trailed his mouth downward, his hands smoothed up Sherlock's chest to thumb lazily over pink nipples, and he let out a dissatisfied sound when his lips reached the waistband of the taller man's trousers. Deciding he didn't want to move his hands, John dipped down and spread his mouth over Sherlock's crotch, serving the dual purpose of unhooking and unzipping the clothing with maneuvers of his teeth and providing extra yet teasing stimulation. Sherlock's eyes went wide at John's approach.

" _How_ did you do that?" he asked incredulously, feeling himself grow painfully hard. "Wait, wait." He stepped to the side and tossed himself onto the bed. Quickly he flipped onto his back and went spread eagle for the other man. "As you were," he called mischievously, propped up on his elbows. "Make it a bit easier for the both of us." Truth be told, even in that short bit of time, Sherlock wasn't going to have lasted much longer on his feet from John's attention detail.

John gave him a blank look, wiping his facial slate clean for the complete transformation into feral confidence that overtook it seconds later when he realized what Sherlock was doing. He crawled up between the other man's long, spread legs and kissed him purposefully before turning his attention to the irritating amount of clothing still covering him. Focusing on priorities, John dipped down to lay between Sherlock's legs and tugged at his trousers until they were off, respreading milky white legs with care and smearing kisses right on the seam of the bulge. It was dizzyingly arousing as well as teasing for both parties because here John could see and smell and _feel_ him, but he couldn't yet taste Sherlock through the material. He opened his mouth to encase the majority of the sizeable sheathed bulge in his mouth, suckling lightly and adding suction to intensify the sensation.

That face. So confident, so predatory. A far cry from the man sitting here just twenty minutes ago. Sherlock would never tire of it, especially knowing he was the only one who would ever get to see it again. He watched John as he made his way down with anticipation. When John engulfed his still-clothed bulge, however, his hips tipped forward into the other man's face, and Sherlock shut his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest, heaving a pleasured sigh. He indulged himself and took up a gentle thrusting motion against John. 

John smirked into the fabric; even the smallest of victories deserved celebration where Sherlock was concerned, and getting the man aroused enough to thrust into him gave him a rush - probably more than it should have, but that was cause for speculation at another time. Soon, however, it became clear that merely sucking at the clothed erection - mouth literally watering - was not enough and impatient hands reached up to slide the pants off. When he returned to laying on his stomach between the elegant V of Sherlock's hips, legs splayed carelessly wide, he took one look at the other man's affected expression and knew he wanted to draw this out as much as he wanted to taste him. Dipping his head down and slightly left, John nuzzled his nose up and down the side of Sherlock's hard shaft, breathing him in and rubbing his cheek against curly, dark pubic hair. Sherlock's hands fisted the sheets as John teased at him. So John wanted it to last, did he? Sherlock couldn't argue with that.

"I expect creativity," he breathed, still watching the crown of John's head bob slowly. And he would have to be so to keep Sherlock properly occupied - the combination of their emotionally-charged afternoon with John's normal presence during sex were a potent mixture on their own. His partner would have to balance on a razor's edge to keep him from getting off too quickly. A surge ran up his spine; he took advantage of the sensation to arch his hips theatrically just for the effect it'd have on John. Sharp corners of jutting hipbone rose and fell with the measured lift of well-defined thighs. So many angles in his hips and torso rolling in a surprisingly soft wave, pressing into John more so than before. He tipped his head back and moaned with a smug, open-mouthed grin.

With one eyebrow raised, John paused in his work to cast Sherlock with a look of 'Is that a challenge?' After that, however, he didn't pause or hesitate in his strong movement upward to take Sherlock's nipple in his mouth without warning. It was only a light suckling, really, nothing that should give Sherlock too much stimulation, but that was rather the point. No, he wanted the other man to just be distracted enough to be entirely caught off-guard at the light sensation of a single nail dragging up the underside of his cock, the pad of John's finger dipping against the slit in the damp head at the top before retreating off. Sherlock gave a pitched yelp of surprise. The addition of lighter-than-air scrape of nail against skin made his eyes cross and hips buck anew, just this side of nearly too much. The single syllable of his partner's name crowded his head, pounding at the back of his teeth to be called, panted, screamed - anything, really, just so it was spoken, but Sherlock swallowed it back down. He loved challenges, and this was a sizeable one that John was putting extra effort into. Releasing his tension in one long, heavy sigh, he sunk back into the mattress and watched John from under lowered eyelids. Allowing himself to be John's personal sexual canvas was an indulgence he'd have to take advantage of more often - just give him x, y, and z materials and see what he came up with. The thought made giddy, almost maniacal laughter bubble up from his chest. Sherlock's little yelp aroused John more than he expected, almost violently so. It left him a little distracted for a moment, but soon his lips were skimming up smooth, pale skin and John's mouth was against Sherlock's ear.

"Pleased with yourself?" he murmured lowly, smirk plastered across his face at the other man's strange, bubbly laughter. It seemed as if Sherlock was about to reply, but John moved quicker and the dark-haired man's speech was cut off abruptly when the doctor bit the Adam's apple on his exposed throat. He was rewarded for his agility by the ability to actually feel Sherlock's rumbling voice before it seized in his throat. As he gently began to tongue the bite mark, his hand wandered down the other's shaft and over his balls, pulling them up and stretching the skin beneath taut. Sherlock seemed to like the sensation beforehand, so John felt through coordinated touch and began to stroke a nail over his exposed perineum.

Sherlock had apparently lost motor control of everything below the hips - John's single line of sensation running up from the bottom sent lovely static up his veins, as if his limbs had fallen asleep and were only just coming to. His thighs twitched incessantly and his feet slid up and down the sheets, trying to find purchase. Each breath had become a moan, higher than one would ever expect from him and overwhelmed with lust.

"Fucking...christ...y-" his sentence briefly fizzled out in a nonsensical rumble of syllables until they sorted themselves out again, "gorgeous, exceptional creature -  _motte, imasugu_.  _Tu boca es inconcebible y lo necesito_ _ahora_ _,"_ he finished on a shout as John's hand slipped up his shaft as a flourish for delightful torture, slipping his thumb into the crevice of the head once more. 

Sherlock's sudden language break made John snarl almost threateningly - it was a double-edged sword, because it would always drive him mad with lust, but in that heightened state he almost lost concentration. Managing to retrieve it, his hand curled into a fist and he pulled up tightly and torturously slow on Sherlock's shaft, milking out a thick drop of pre-ejaculate. He spread it slick all over the sensitive head of the other man's cock, teasing and tugging and wetting his fingers in the process. _Perfect._ Bringing his hand back up to his lips, John stared Sherlock dead in the eye and slipped two slick fingers inside his own mouth to suck off the salty precursor. He knew this would be the breaking point; after finally having a taste, John wouldn't be able to hold back any longer and would, quite possessively, want Sherlock's cock in his mouth. The lasciviousness of the thought on its own sent a shiver down his spine. Yet, somehow, as John proceeded to slide down Sherlock's body and greedily take him in his mouth, on all fours himself with his arse jutting in the air for a view he was sure wouldn't be forgotten, John didn't think Sherlock would mind, really.

Sherlock's expression completely slackened as he watched John lick his fingers clean of precome. It stayed that way, blankly staring at John's wanton pose until tongue hit scarlet, swollen flesh. His neck cracked loudly with the force of his head snapping back; his elbows slipped out from under him and his back dropped onto the mattress. Knees flopped to each side, spreading himself wide and heels dug into the mattress so he could arch his spasmodic spine. He had to take massive, heaving breaths to keep himself from going too far, waiting for the immediate sensation to draw back towards something more normal. As before, his hips twitched and ached to be released from conscious restrain and buck wildly into the oh-so-inviting orifice it was being offered, but with herculean effort he tempered it. Make it last, draw it out. And as well, don't choke John. That was important, too. 

This was somewhat of what John had imagined when Sherlock had teased him earlier at work - Sherlock had said it himself, hadn't he? Spread, wet, begging for him... Though now John didn't want Sherlock to beg. He wanted the man to absolutely keen. To hear the perfect wail of Sherlock's voice in the midst of utter ecstasy would be music to John's ears, and with that vision in mind, quite selfishly, he began to suck as hard as he possibly could. His cheeks were hollowed against the other man's shaft and his tongue was dragging out along with his mouth, providing an extra lick of stimulation up the underside each time he pulled up. It wasn't enough, though, not for him. His mind flicked through things he knew about the human body - quite a lot of material - but presently he remembered the erogenous zones. Most specifically male zones were below the waist, and that made for a convenient surplus of stimulation. John rubbed slow but insistent circles with his thumbs into the hinges between the thigh and the pelvis on either side of Sherlock's balls, the rest of his fingers free to stroke along the sack in the middle. His hands' sensual massage provided a nice contrast to the demanding pressure and pace John's mouth was applying to Sherlock's shaft.

 _What in god's name is he-_  Sherlock thought, but higher thought processes shut down completely as the tactile sensation gained hypnotising rhythm. His cries devolved to shaking moans that, to the untrained ear, might almost sound like sobbing, projected by his diaphragm seemingly locked in a tensed position. John inexplicably managed to maintain something of a rhythm between both actions, drawing Sherlock down into a thoughtless fog. It plateaued for a bit, enveloping him in intense but consistent ecstasy. Or perhaps it had grown too slowly for his frayed mind to measure, as orgasm struck with seemingly no provocation, piercing to the very core of him. He buckled in John's hands, chin tilted up and gaping; legs twitching hard and all but encasing John's head between his thighs. As muscle seizure wore off, Sherlock thrust into John a bit in a gluttonous bid for just that last little bit before oversensitivity took over. Spent, his bent legs slid on their feet down the mattress as his spine gave one last fluttering seizure at the base before he appeared to melt entirely.

Suddenly John's mouth was flooded and he struggled to swallow it all, but inevitably some dribbled out and he let it. Sherlock's shallow thrust was both a surprise and an overflow of sorts, and John coughed a couple times before managing to swallow what was left in his mouth and lap up the rest. He cleaned everything spotless, as he did so briefly wondering if his apparent fixation on the taste of Sherlock's semen should be worrying. He decided not to pursue it as there were more important matters to attend to and he intended to attend to them instantly. He hovered over Sherlock's body, noting the sweat-drenched and slightly trembling aftermath indicating a powerful climax, and placed a kiss on his damp forehead, his words coming out as a whisper. "You are...resplendent."

"Accurate...word choice..." Sherlock panted, managing a watery smile up at John. "And you...are ingenious." He swallowed hard and shut his eyes in attempt to recoup himself. "Would you like reciprocation? I'll...need a few minutes." Yes, he'd done the same to John this morning, but the rate at which the two of them had been going at it in this week together (so few days?), his partner might be anticipating a burgeoning pattern between them. Which raised an interesting question. "Is this common for you?" he asked, breath mostly back but voice still cracking. "The frequency of sexual encounters, I mean. Is it common at all? I've never looked up any data on it - didn't seem relevant. I suppose it still isn't, and I'm just curious." He made to sit up on his elbows again, but only got as far as one arm under him. It gave quickly under just a bit of his weight, so he let himself drop again and decided to try again later. John couldn't suppress the chuckle that rose in his throat, both at the question and at Sherlock's failed attempt to sit up. He slid off Sherlock and curled around his side, figuring the man was likely too weak at the moment to support his weight. He shook his head and smirked.

"Yeah, it's common - when you're teenagers. Not exactly when in your thirties. I mean, even when I was in other relationships we didn't have this much sex - not that I'm complaining one bit, to be sure. I suppose, though, that someone like you might have a late-blooming sex drive. I mean, Jesus, your newfound libido...and, you know, I'm just lucky to be along for the ride."

"Are you suggesting I'm making up for lost time?" Sherlock asked with amusement, putting his arms behind his head. "Astonishingly unscientific of you. There's no way to know what my sex drive may have been before you, as I never had tried - it may have been negligibly different if I'd indulged at a younger age. I'd suspect that to be the case, given my natural attraction towards high stimulus like sex, or chasing criminals...and drugs," he added with a hint of hesitation. "It's not so much that I'm  _biologically driven_  to do this with you so often, as it is something that I enjoy indulging in and haven't found my limit for it within small time periods. Perhaps it depends on my mood. My enjoyment of having sex with you is not precluded by my own desire to achieve orgasm. Once or twice I initiated just because I wanted to see you as you are when aroused because I find it...emotionally satisfying, I suppose? That often, in turn, arouses me and so on and so forth, but it wasn't the initiating motivation." The longer he spoke on the matter, the more he began to suspect that, keeping in character with the rest of his personality, this approach to sexuality wasn't common, either.

"Touche." John laid on his side, arm hanging loosely over Sherlock's waist. He watched the other man from the side, eyes tracing over his profile in subconscious appreciation. "That is interestingly altruistic of you. I know _you_ don't think so, but the fact of the matter is that most people would not pin emotional satisfaction over sexual gratification." He smiled. "I'm actually not surprised."

"Altruistic by incident - well, at least partially. I  _am_  selfish, no getting around that. But that isn't to say I don't take your needs into account. Far from it, though I imagine you realise that just fine, and I'm being redundant. I just didn't want to imply otherwise." He turned his head so he could bury the lower half of his face in John's hair. "As usual, most people only indulge in the base, simplest facets of a given human compulsion. Human sexuality from a sociological standpoint is just as much about attachment behaviours as it is the simple act of reproduction or self-satisfaction. And being a perfectionist, I endeavour to exceed expectations," he said, chuckling at himself. "And, well, I just like you, too. I suppose that's part of it." He grinned against John's scalp.

For some reason, John's subconscious found this explanation thoroughly amusing because in the next moment he was scrunching up his nose and trying not to bust up in laughter. A bit of reflection revealed that of _course_ Sherlock would say something like that. John had heard it many times before:

_You're an_ _**idiot** _ _\--no no no, don't be like that, practically everyone is -_ _**Ordinary people** _ _fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish - I knew what effect it had on a superior mind so I needed to try it on an_ _**average** _ _one._

It was just so very _Sherlock - Being a perfectionist, I endeavour to exceed expectations._ John's thoughtful grin mouthed at Sherlock's shoulder and he sighed happily.

"Yeah, well, that's good," he joked. "But you're certainly not most people."

"Finally caught on, have you?" Sherlock replied with his usual drawl, before he softened considerably. He turned a bit so John was nestled just under his chin and they were facing one another. "And neither are you." In some specific ways, far more extraordinary than Sherlock himself. If he hadn't understood that before today, he certainly did now. He slid up palm up from the small of John's back slowly, enjoying the sound and feeling of it against the other man's skin. All the ways John could have been, choices he could have made...he could've been  _Jim,_ for god's sake - not as clever, but easily just as violent. Or shattered and strung-out like Sherlock in his twenties. Instead he decided he'd rather cloak his superlative nature in the trappings of an ordinary man. Amicable but mysteriously so - you just  _knew_  he was someone to trust and like, never realising the depth of character and loyalty and pure magnanimity just sitting under the glass floor. If only people would just  _look._ Every single person John chose to interact with, blessed with the attention of such a man and never bothering to appreciate it. John as he was, was a gift - the most improbable outcome of so much stress and sadness and pain.

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends!
> 
> There's still a tad more content subject to the trigger warnings mentioned in my note on Chapter 15, but beyond this one there won't be anything trigger-worthy for a while~
> 
> Enjoy!

John gave a small grunt and rolled into Sherlock further. Something about those limbs wrapping around him...they weren't merely sensual, they were downright comforting. Not that John would admit it - ever - but they provided exactly the sort of asylum when the rest of the world shrank so much it felt like he was suffocating. And, as Sherlock was no stranger to this fact, there were plenty of things in John's life that could make the world unbearably claustrophobic. He hummed into Sherlock's collarbone and pressed a kiss to the jutting bone.

"Let me know if you need something for the, ah, soreness. Don't think I'll be needing to clean you up this time around."

Sherlock shrugged.

"I'm fine. No need to worry. And yes, your voraciousness has clearly minimised the mess," he said smugly. He let them sit in silence for a bit, still stroking John's back. "So...do you feel like my idea helped? I know it's a bit soon, but any immediate opinions can help me plan better for next time. Thoughts?"

John inhaled, then exhaled. Again. Again.

"I really didn't like it at first. The blindfold threw me, especially. I didn't like when you retreated, even though I knew why you had to do it. Having my back turned to you is uncomfortable to me. But I liked when we just talked and I wasn't focused so much on it." He glanced up at Sherlock's face. "I don't mean that I don't want you to keep...helping...me. I think you did a good job."

Sherlock sat up on an elbow, stamina now mostly back.

"You hesitated on the word 'help'. Is that just because you're reluctant to admit you need or want help, or is it something else? I asked you to give it a try, and you did. I think what happened went rather ideally, but I'm not going to submit you to this just for you to appease me. That's not the point. You have no obligation to do it again, now that you've tried." He looked John over - his eyes were bright, paying attention, but the rest of his expression seemed...worn. The exercise had had a real effect on him, no matter how much he was soldiering on. "If you  _do_  want me to help, whatever method that may be," he said slowly, taking John's hand, "I need you to be honest with me about it. I can't do that properly if you're trying to put on a brave face for whatever reason. Some of those numbers you told me were clearly much higher than you said they were, and even now you're trying to play yourself down. If I don't know how you're really reacting, I could do even more damage." 

"I know that," John replied, eyes darting up and to the right in mild discomfort before he inhaled and set himself straight again. "I also know that I'm going to be uncomfortable no matter what, and I'm telling you now that I appreciate what you did - after the fact. I'm not all the way broken. I can still think and feel and live for myself, I just have some...sensitive areas." He propped himself up on an elbow so he could better look Sherlock in the face, sudden softness showing in his own. "And so do you. And I think I'd like to try more things with you. I think they'd help the both of us." He squeezed Sherlock's hand. "I know I was hesitant to tell you what I was feeling, before. I won't be. I'll keep letting you know."

"I would never describe you as entirely broken," Sherlock said. "And even if I did before, today would have more than proven me wrong. You are so much more functional than me despite having suffered far more than I can claim to have. Part of that is exacerbated by my personality, but not enough to make it a similar dynamic between us. And you're right about helping both of us; by forcing myself to acknowledge others' difficult lives, I put my own in perspective. That...has had a more potent effect than I ever thought it could have. However, I didn't intend to imply you are somehow handicapped by your circumstances. I'm sorry," he finished quietly. He stared down at the sheets, suddenly hesitant. "There  _is_  something I'd like to know, now that you're not potentially compromised. Again, I don't mean to imply this as some kind of judgement, but rather as an honest question...but, why did your mother never take you and your sister and leave?" he asked slowly, still staring down. "Forgive my bluntness, but it sounds like your homelife was a pretty severe case of domestic abuse." 

"Because she loved my father," John supplied readily, more than a touch of bitterness in his voice. "It's the ultimate, ironic joke. She always said she was glad she loved him, that she didn't regret it, because it gave her us, but...it did things to her. She lived with a hell of a lot of guilt, letting him stay around us because she loved him, and she tried to appease that guilt by channelling his destructiveness to her instead of us. It worked for a while,but...well, you know me and Harry. And I didn't consider him my father. He was just some bastard that hurt my mother, so when I got old enough I started fighting back." He smiled sardonically. "My therapists always balked at how I answered the famous question: love or trust? If you choose the latter, you may very well end up alone. But the former can be a poison. I just figured it was better to be alone. I'd rather trust someone than love them, but God, am I lucky I get to do both."

"Well said," Sherlock replied, finally looking back up at John. "That is a philosophy I can very much appreciate." He pulled them together for a languid kiss. "I'm more than proud of you, John, I...admire you. Legitimately so. I was beyond impressed at how well you managed." He sat up and stripped off his unbuttoned shirt before rising out of bed. He snatched up his pants and put them back on. A few moments and a bit of rustling in drawers later, he returned to bed in a t-shirt and pyjama pants, sitting cross-legged on the mattress. "And as far as your mother, that sounds like a manifestation of codependency likely brought on by whatever undiagnosed mental illness you referred to her suffering from," he said, putting his hands together in their typical posturing of thought. 

"I don't really care to analyse my mother's causality, or her mental state," John said a bit gruffly. However, he shook it off and leaned his forehead forward to rest against the base of Sherlock's neck. "I've just done that too often before. Tried to, I should say," he eventually explained in a much softer and almost apologetic voice. "She is strange. Bright and clever, terribly clever. Lives in her head, though. Harry says that's where she'll die - where she _wants_ to die." His eyes glazed over and then he blinked. "Anyway. Enough about my mother. It's yours we'll soon be concerned with."

The compounded effect of the rebuke from John and the mention of his own impending visit to his mother made Sherlock recoil considerably. He lowered his head and went a bit stiff.

"Sorry. I shouldn't have said anything. Yes, mother. Tuesday. At this point I just want to get it over with. Tea?" He got off the bed and headed just a shade too quickly for the kitchen.

Stupid,  _stupid_  - he'd been doing so well, too. But, inevitably, Sherlock would run headlong into the concrete barrier marking the limit of his tactfulness and ability to sympathise when it gave way into either his fascination with the topic at hand, or his complete and utter boredom of it. He went about getting the kettle ready, continuing to berate himself for his transgression. When John was made appropriately vulnerable and reminiscent, his entire demeanour worried, and, if Sherlock was very honest with himself,  _frightened_ him. He just wanted John to be  _better,_ for that fear and vulnerability to dissipate, because it was only a matter of time before Sherlock said or did something to trigger it again,  _always_ would. Because Sherlock did indeed make mistakes - he  _was_  human - but they were few and, once committed, were never repeated thanks to his excellent learning curve. Except here, in the realm of sympathy and tact and overall emotional appreciation. Time after time he'd get up to a metaphorical jog, just to come up on that same towering wall. Sometimes he managed to see it coming and slow down. Other times, like this, he just kept going into varying degrees of headlong collision. John had made mention of him in regards to Asperger's more than once, and as time went on, Sherlock was beginning to wonder more and more if the other man was indeed correct. High-functioning sociopathy clearly wasn't the answer - John's presence in his life proved that beyond shadow of doubt. No longer being able to claim that as identity, as something solid to present to people, regardless of its negative connotations, made him feel unmoored, drifting amongst a sea of purposeful people with their convenient boxes of definition. Sherlock didn't want  _their_ definitions, he  _wasn't_  one of them; but that didn't mean he didn't want one of his own.

He leant against the counter and hung his head as he waited for the water to boil.

Oh, no. No no no no no. They'd been doing so well... All things must come to an end, he supposed, even the good ones. John laid there in exactly the same position, arm slumped down over the warm dip in the bed that had held his lover's body just seconds before. He felt colder, his outside source of heat taken away, and sat up in irritation with himself. _Why_ did he have to mention Sherlock's mother? He knew Sherlock was apprehensive about it, and yet John had gone and done it anyway, just to get the subject off his own mother. Perhaps subconsciously he _wanted_ Sherlock to withdraw so he'd stop thinking about Mrs. Watson. It didn't matter what John's motivation was, the bottom line was that it was a selfish thing to do and he should have at least said something else. He finally sat up, not content to snuggle with nothingness, and curled up again. Legs tucked themselves up, hands wound tightly around shins, and chin dropped onto knees. From here, the faint trail of John's spine beneath his skin was visible, stretched and arched up along his back. He stared at the opposite wall, his mind projecting the swirling thoughts in his head into living, curling words on the blank wall. They were mostly things other people had said, and he could hear them in their voices, too, as well as see it in their handwriting on the wall, if he knew their handwriting:

_Trust issues, it says here._

_John, you're a soldier. It's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life._

_You know I love you, John, but you're an odd one._

_He's a pleasure to have, but the truth of the matter is he's a very sombre child, Mrs. Watson._

_How sweet - a little lion cub trying to protect the whole goddamn pack._

_Why won't you let me meet your parents? Are you ashamed of me?_

_That's a lot of newspapers._

_I don't have friends. Just got one._

_You've never been the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light you are unbeatable._

_Goodbye, John._

_I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but afraid they're gone. Both of them._

_John, dear, where's Mary?_

_John._  
  
At length, he shut his eyes against the mural of words on the wall and when he opened them, they were all gone. He quietly waited for Sherlock to arrive back with the tea, counting steadily in his head.

Sherlock blinked himself out of his reverie and fixed tea for them both. When he returned to their room he found John curled all but fetally, upright on the mattress. Dimly he could hear him mumbling with a steady cadence...he was counting again, barely audible but it was there. John didn't like it when Sherlock just took off like that, even though he'd done it much more gently this time. Aftercare was incredibly important after exercises like this, and what had Sherlock done? Let John go down on him. Just because John  _said_  he was fine didn't mean anything...again,  _stupid._ Downright moronic of Sherlock, really. 

_This isn't about you,_  he reminded himself.  _You made a mistake. Fine. You will make more, that much is obvious. The sooner you accept that and move on, the better. Just start over._

He set their mugs on the nightstand and slid onto the bed next to his partner. John was dazed, lost in thought, so Sherlock pressed a gentle hand to the other man's shoulder.

"John?" he asked, causing his partner to jump noticeably. John turned at the call of his name, his distant gaze clouded. Sherlock didn't mention the counting - there was no point - and simply offered the other man a tentative smile. "Apologies. Didn't mean to startle you. Everything alright?" He was a bit wary of asking outright, but John had just got done telling him he would be more honest about it, so he gave the other man a chance. 

What was the point in hiding it? No, really, what did John think he was going to gain from withholding from the one person on this earth he trusted with his life?

"I think I was irritable with you about my mother because it hits a bit close to home," John replied slowly, not bothering to answer Sherlock's initial question. He saw no point in it. "I'm sorry. The reason I don't like to think about it is that analysing her mind might lead to making discoveries about mine." His eyes sharpened just a bit from their clouded gaze. "I just don't know anymore. You would think soldiering on after horrible things is a sign of strength, but when so many things have happened to you, is it really? I've had therapists look at me funny when I told them I _haven't_ ever hurt myself and I _don't_ self-medicate and...I mean, there's no point in avoiding it - yeah, I had an abusive childhood. Yes, I've been traumatized from the war. Of course I was devastated when I thought you were dead, and even more when my wife and son slipped right through my fingers. So I guess what I've been terrified of this entire time, and wondering whether I'll ever know...is remaining sane the sane thing to do?"

Sherlock sat back a bit in surprise when John just...started talking. Interesting. As he listened, he let his arm circle the other man's shoulders in a silent comfort. Once John finished speaking, Sherlock stayed silent for several minutes, collecting his thoughts, and John, though he gave him an odd look, didn't interrupt.

"Picking yourself back up again after suffering is indeed a sign of strength, John, and you have it in seemingly unlimited quantities," he began, "Don't doubt that. However, with that said - and coming from  _me_  I think this should be telling - you don't have a proper outlet for everything after the fact, months or years later. When I came home, you were distraught, miserable day after day due to the immediacy of Mary's death and my return...but mere months on, you were fine.  _Too_  fine. I imagine that you think however long you actively grieve something is enough, and then you pack any leftover emotions up and get on with your life - which is what anyone has to do to remain functional, but everyone slips once and again. Even I do, I just usually made sure no one was around to see it, back before I left."

"Think about yesterday,” Sherlock continued, “I had an entire temper tantrum in front of you. That still counts as emotional venting. Is the way I do it healthy? Of course not, I'm  _a drug addict,_  for god's sake, but at least I still  _do it._ In fact," he paused for a moment in recollection, "this plays all the way back to our first night together. Remember what I told you - you  _don't let go._  So again, I reiterate my concern in you not letting yourself be upset. You aren't giving yourself an outlet when perhaps you need to. Our work and, before that, the war gave you that outlet. But the stress and thrill of what we do together doesn't compare to that of what you likely experienced in Afghanistan, so perhaps what we do isn't enough of a passive vent, especially after the last three years of your life. You're clearly afraid to do so, afraid of what you'll do either to yourself, or to me. I told you last night I wasn't afraid of whatever you kept caged up in your head - this is why. You let it out while we had sex...and  _I'm fine._ Bruised," he admitted with a smirk, "but happy about it. So...scream, throw things, curl up in the fetal position and cry for hours, fuck me until I all but bleed. I don't care. You certainly  _looked_ like you wanted to cry earlier, even with the blindfold on. In fact, since you've told me about this, I can think of...what, at least three separate occasions you looked close to doing something like I've described?  _I can take it._ You put up with me flying off the handle when I haven't had a case for a week - this is the least I can do."

John took a minute to soak in all of Sherlock's words, his head falling to the side to lean onto the other man's shoulder.

"You're right, of course. I suppose I do suppress things when perhaps I shouldn't. It's not even a conscious thing most of the time, it's just something I do to get from one day to the next without blowing my brains out-" He cut himself off, wincing. "Sorry. Working on the filter/no filter thing.”

John's flippant remark about suicide did indeed cause Sherlock to close his eyes and give himself a moment, but he shook off John's apology.

“Look, I know I'm repressed,” John said, “Years of therapy have revealed at least that much. I just don't know if drudging it all up again after it's already been buried is going to be the ultimate best thing to do." He sighed and turned his face into the crook of his partner's shoulder. "I want to get past it."

"No, I agree that all this is mostly subconscious with you," Sherlock said. "Believe me, I have a healthy appreciation for doing something like that day to day just to claim the victory of still being alive," he said, bitterness evident in his voice, but he quickly moved on before John could comment on it. 

"However, in all honesty, John, I'm not sure what else  _to_  do. You've clearly talked, and talked, and  _talked_  the subject to death with a number of people much better-qualified than I, and you still are as you are. We are close, John - closer than either of us have ever deigned to be to anyone else in our lives. That means there's an entirely new qualification for boundaries. Consider, for a moment: what if we hadn't done this tonight. In fact, consider if you hadn't told me any of this  _at all_ , but we were still together. What if, believing myself to be romantic and clever, I snuck up behind you and ran my hands up the back of your neck and into your hair without warning? What would you have done? Because knowing what I do now, I'm sure it wouldn't have been positive." He sighed heavily and nudged at John to set his legs across his lap so they could be closer. "These are things I feel as though I need to know, so we don't have a repeat of last night. It's one thing if it's controlled and I have your permission to do so, even if it is still painful to watch, but causing it by accident is much worse. If you have another suggestion I'm entirely willing to hear and consider it."

"I've no idea what else to do," John admitted and leant his head against Sherlock's shoulder. "Acclimation is the only thing I can think of that might actually work, even if it's a painful time getting there. As well as, you know, me working on the outlet thing. As you said, talking hasn't helped at all in the years since it's started, and I'm rather tired of recounting the whole thing. So maybe...maybe we could try it again sometime and see how things play out." He looked up from Sherlock's chest. "Besides. I could get used to you. And you're the only one I'm really interested in getting used to."

Sherlock's arm around John wandered up so his hand could rake into the other man's hair.

"I certainly have no intention of allowing someone to get this close to you," he offered with a bit of a smirk, "but seriously, thank you for indulging me. I'll do my best to help you however I can, and remember, it isn't exactly pleasant for me, either." He kissed the John's temple and stayed there for a few moments, just enjoying his presence and scent. "I would never say it compares to your experience, but know that even though I do find the effort fascinating, actually following through is...difficult to watch. I'm...honoured you trust me enough to do this." 

John began mouthing at Sherlock's sculpted shoulder, laying kisses across it before settling his forehead against it. He sighed.

"I can't even imagine what I must look like when..." He shuddered. No, best not think about the fact that he likely looked childish and pathetic and _vulnerable_. Best not think about that at all. "I know that doesn't make it any easier for you, but just know that unless I outright tell you I want to stop, I really do appreciate everything. No one's ever bothered to try this with me before." He hadn't meant it to come out like it had, but once it did come out he realized it was true. He looked up and stroked a hand through Sherlock's thick dark hair, pushing it back gently. "Thank you."

"Of course, love," he replied quietly, adding the rarely-utilised pet name for emphasis. He bent his neck to kiss John's forehead, then down to his nose and finally his mouth. "You've nothing to be ashamed of," he whispered soothingly, having noticed John's shudder (of course). "As I told you before, it doesn't change anything of what I think of you and, perhaps more importantly, doesn't reflect your true nature in the least."

When John had been as he was earlier, Sherlock hadn't seen him as the man he was today, but the boy he had been. Just a window into the past, no longer an active, living part of him. Sherlock was well aware how well John kept a lid on the situation; he had no fear of any of this bleeding into their everyday life and rendering the man incapacitated, save for the most extreme of situations, and those were unlikely to ever be encountered. And even if they did, Sherlock would be there. 

John hummed in response, shifting so that he was lying on his side on the bed and pulling Sherlock gently with him. Usually he would take the time to change into his pyjamas, being a man of comfort above all, but tonight he couldn't be arsed. He snuggled against Sherlock's long, lean frame at the sudden thought turning on his other side to be the little spoon. His gaze wandered aimlessly as he assessed himself, deeming the discomfort at having his back turned to be no more than a three. Wholly manageable. Perhaps this number system would turn out to help, after all. Sherlock let his hand drift down to the other man's stomach, sneaking up underneath the jumper and turning circles on his skin.

"You clearly don't believe me. That's fine - eventually you'll realise I'm right. I always am, after all," he offered coyly, tongue playing at the shell of the other man's ear for just a moment. One of his feet wormed its way over and around John's top leg possessively. "Amenable as I am to this, if you're suggesting it be bedtime, you might want to be _under_ the blankets instead. Just something to consider," he teased.

"Oi!" John jumped a little at the tongue against his ear, squirming slightly. He huffed out a sigh and grumbled a bit before shimmying underneath the covers almost reluctantly. "You know, we probably don't even need them. You're like a hot coal when I have to lay against you all night." Sherlock knew John was just trying to brush it off, and so did John, so he said nothing more and pushed back against the other man, slipping an ankle between Sherlock's.

"I don't know how that can be, given how little body mass I have, but I think regardless of the veracity, you like this too much. You'll be glad for it in winter, anyway." Sherlock's eyebrows lifted happily at a sudden thought. "Which reminds me... _Christmas_. Otherwise known as a socially-acceptable excuse to spoil you. I might just be able to dredge up some of that 'holiday spirit' you've always carried on about if it means I can spend ridiculous amounts of money on you." Perhaps he should be more than a little disgusted with himself at how mushy he was being (for him, at least), but he consoled himself in the knowledge no one would ever see it but John - to the rest of the planet, Sherlock would very much remain standoffish, grumpy, belligerent Sherlock. Making it exclusive wasn't that far outside of his modus operandi anyway. John, whose eyes were shut now, grunted at the sudden image of Sherlock struggling to drag several huge shopping bags out the door amidst the Christmas rush, and chuckled.

"Calm down, you, no need to go overboard. I hardly need anything, and if I did, it would be things you disapprove of. Like jumpers and cleaning supplies." At that, he laughed a little. "But maybe I wouldn't mind a few extra things here and there. You can be surprisingly thoughtful when you put your mind to it. And what shall I get you, then? Anything tight-fitting, I presume?"

"Gifts are supposed to be for _the recipient_ , John, not _yourself,_ " he shot back in amusement, tightening his hold around the other man just a bit as he felt John settle. "Though I wasn't lying about the purple shirt. It _was_ ruined and I _do_ need to replace it." He deleted burgeoning memories – Moscow had been more than a little Not Good. "Other than that, I leave it to you to deduce," he finished, deciding to opt for the cop-out answer. He had no idea what he wanted, though they had months until the date was even somewhat relevant. Christmas was something he'd never put much effort into - there was no reason, obviously. Even when they'd lived together before, their celebration hadn't been personal like this one would be, so it was a totally different situation.

"Oh, very nice. One purple shirt it is, then," John replied, lids settling heavily over blue eyes. "I suppose one more shirt for that one I ripped the buttons off of a few nights ago...but maybe I'll have to get creative with the rest." The smirk could be _heard_ in his voice, but he didn't bother to delve into the now- blooming ideas in his mind's eye. "Either way, I'm getting a Christmas tree. No more of that fake one where half the lights don't work because you spilled corrosive on a wire. Besides, I rather like the smell."

Sherlock frowned and grunted.

"Pine needles bloody everywhere. Lovely." He felt John give even more under him; he was falling asleep, so Sherlock nestled his nose into the other man's hair and went quiet. John definitely needed the rest after such an afternoon. Now that he was reflecting on it, the entire past week had been nothing but up and down for them. Inwardly he promised to let up entirely for the next two days...until they visited the estate, of course. There was just no avoiding drama, there. Sherlock would try, of course, for John, but no promises could be made.

Vaguely John felt Sherlock tighten his hold around him as he went limp, a slight smile settled across his features when he felt the familiar shape of a nose pushing gently but insistently into his hair. He let the full weight of his head settle into the pillow and surrendered to sleep, thinking not about their trying week or the worrisome event ahead, but of the blissful thought that he could really get used to being the little spoon for the rest of his life. If he had to, of course.

~

The next two days passed quietly enough. A couple of experiments here, a rejected client or two there, more episodes of he and John making the neighbours uncomfortable. But as Monday night crept in around them and John drifted off, Sherlock couldn't sleep at all. He stayed with his partner for a couple hours into his sleeping cycle before he finally got up. He stared at a large grey shape hanging off the bedroom door - John's new suit, picked up just that afternoon. Sherlock hadn't seen him in it yet - his one moment to look forward to in an impending afternoon and evening of innumerable uncomfortable moments. He slipped out of the bedroom, shutting the door quietly behind him and turned on the kitchen light, intent on continuing his current experiment in motion.

John snorted unattractively when the door shut, rolling over and subconsciously splaying out over Sherlock's still-warm side of the bed. These couple of days had been difficult for his partner, he knew that, and he almost felt guilty being able to sleep so soundly as compared with Sherlock. Well, it wasn't as if the man slept regularly at all anyway, right? He slipped back into an REM cycle, body stiff and still as a log as he slept on his stomach face first in the pillow. John didn't wake once during the night - a testament to the comfort his now-absent bedmate had come to provide - and only sniffed awake when a beam of early morning sunlight insistently prodded at his eyes. Then he sat up quickly, realizing he was indeed alone. So Sherlock hadn't slept at all tonight. Great. He slipped out of bed and padded into the living room, rubbing at his eyes and turning into the kitchen automatically to set the kettle for tea only to find it already heating.

"Oh. Hallo." He turned to catch a glimpse of the figure slumped over his microscope at the table. "Didn't sleep, then?" Sherlock hummed his acknowledgement.

"Kettle will be ready in just a moment." Now that John was up and Sherlock didn't have to worry about waking him too early, he could go about his usual morning routines. "I wasn't sure what, if anything, you'd want for breakfast, so I leave it to you." He got up off his usual stool and made for the bedroom once again. One task at a time, he told himself. Just stick to that, and he'd get through the day. Just one day, and he could go back to enjoying his new life they'd begun crafting for themselves. One evening of appeasement before slipping back into the familiar ignorance of the rest of his family. This visit should be enough to tide everyone over for five years to a decade at least, right?

John nodded more to himself than to Sherlock, moving to grab a breakfast muffin and tear it in half. He went about fixing a jam-filled pastry, adding a bit of butter in there just for good measure as the kettle heated. When it was good and whistling, he flipped off the stove and shoved half the muffin in his mouth to chew on as he made the tea, taking extra care to prepare Sherlock's mug exactly how he liked it, as John knew that few were going to make him happy today. Pushing the other half of the muffin in his mouth to free his hands, he chewed laboriously as he brought each mug back into the bedroom and set Sherlock's down on his end table. He took a sip of his own and sat on the bed, content with his hot drink and a full stomach.

"You don't want anything for breakfast, then?" he asked cheerfully, knowing the answer but asking anyway.

Sherlock gave the question the only appropriate answer - a peaked eyebrow from a quarter-angle, not even truly looking at John. He slipped off his dressing gown and tossed it on the bed before picking up his tea for a quick sip.

"I'll be in the shower, then, if you have no objections." He walked back around their bed without waiting for an answer and pulled the door to the bathroom open. So far, so good. Terse, but not overtly so with John. Hopefully he could keep this up with him the rest of the day. John didn't deserve to have all of Sherlock's anxiety piled on top of him with plenty of snideness and insults for good measure. John was supposed to be different; Sherlock would need to remind himself of that frequently.

John watched his partner's tall form disappear into the bathroom, sighing to himself and taking another sip. He had a thick skin when it came to most things, and with Sherlock his skin was thicker than most. He knew Sherlock wasn't lashing out at _him_ ; in fact, he understood quite well why he was behaving in such a manner. John had only ever heard of Mrs. Holmes' character, and even from what he'd heard she didn't sound like someone you'd want to visit more than once every few years, let alone spend an entire childhood with. He had a distinct feeling he was going to gain much more insight than perhaps Sherlock wanted him to about his home life, and he only hoped no major catastrophe presented itself in the obligatory hours that must be spent at the Holmes manor.

The thud of the door to the bathroom sounding behind Sherlock inexplicably irritated him. It put a barrier, however tiny and ultimately pointless, between him and John. They weren't even arguing, he debated with himself, so _why_ would he care? He strode angrily to the mirror and ran a hand through his tangled hair. As he pulled his shirt off with far more force than necessary and threw it to the floor, he shut his eyes and made himself just _stop_.

_You are being foolish and emotional and there is absolutely no reason for it now,_ he told himself. _Calm. Down._

But it wasn't working. Talking himself down with logic usually worked, but this was not a usual situation. He needed a better starting foothold, to just start from a clean slate, something positive to hold onto...ah. Yes, excellent idea. He pivoted on a foot, strode right back out of the bathroom and all but threw himself onto John on the bed, taking just long enough to set the other man's mug of tea on the night stand before nibbling at his neck.

Oh. Well, _that_ was certainly quick. If he were to stop and truly consider it, John would probably arrive at the notion that it wasn't wholly unexpected, as today was a stressful day for Sherlock and the man had a right to let off steam. And, as John had so vigorously found out recently, sex, for Sherlock, proved to be an extremely effective outlet for stress. He inclined his neck toward Sherlock's insistent mouth and tilted his head back, allowing the other man to do as he pleased. A little excited heat ignited inside his belly, even moreso at the thought that in no more than a few hours they were to meet the matriarch. He curled his arms around Sherlock's torso, bringing him closer. Sherlock took to the invitation happily, increasing the pressure behind each kiss. A shade too late he remembered what they were doing tonight so he dropped his head to John's shoulder instead. Keep it below the collar. He set himself in John's lap and ground up into him, hands at his hips to assist in leverage.

"Can I have you?" he asked at a growl. He'd be careful to make sure John could walk later, but they had all morning to recover, right? "Please," he added with a bit of a whine, knowing exactly what it would do to John.

What came out of John's mouth when he opened it to reply was not the English he'd expected, but a soft moan. He hoped that would be enough of a reply, as he didn't think he'd be able to form words at this precise moment in time anyway. He huffed out a breath and bucked his hips into the other man's, earning himself another low sound. He spread his hands over the plane of Sherlock's back and urged him forward, pressing them together and leaning his forehead against the side of the other's face.

"Yes," he finally managed breathily. "Take me. Fuck me. Do whatever you want."

Sherlock answered John's permission with a gruff noise of his own, having travelled down the other man's torso with his lips and begun tugging at his pyjama pants. Once the lower half including pants was done away with, his palms planted themselves at his hips and pushed smoothly under John's shirt to pull it up and over his head. It was tossed viciously to the floor and Sherlock slotted their hips together, bracing his arms against the headboard as he rolled into John with relentless force. Though he lusted for John's neck, he settled for taking hold of the shell of John's ear with his teeth instead.

"Oh, you know better than to give me carte blanche with anything, John," he hissed with a dangerous smirk as he all but rode the other man to get them going properly.

The teeth clamped around his ear made John yelp a bit, heat rolling through him at that rumbling voice so, _so_ close. He grunted softly at each thrust, wanting nothing more than to wrap his legs around the other man's hips and force him to bring John to orgasm just like this. However, the common sense that it was about to get so much better than hurried frotting was what made John hold back and whine impatiently.

Taking the cue, Sherlock backed off and indulged in a brief, tongue-laden make out session to cool them both off just a bit. A minute or two of that later, he slid off John and seized their rapidly-draining container of lube off Sherlock's bedside table - they never bothered to put it away since last time. It was just an inconvenience. He bounced back over and, while straddling the other man at about his knees, took hold of his hips and pulled him down to a recumbent position. After painting both John and his fingers thoroughly, he began teasing the other man open with firm but not uncomfortable pressure. John adjusted his hips, bent his legs and spread them to accommodate him. While he worked, Sherlock slathered John's thighs with his mouth, sucking hard at the meatiest part of the muscle on the inner side.

"God, when you're like this," he groaned as he paused to catch his breath, "I could come just _looking_ at you." John strained a bit under him as he added a third finger, so he went back to massaging the insides of his legs with his tongue.

If one didn't know John better, one might have interpreted the expression on his face as he stared down at Sherlock to be a mixture of shock and terror. Of course, they'd have to ignore the violently flushed body, intermittent tremors, and engorged black pupils almost swallowing up his entire blue eyes. John _was_ a little shocked, but he was always shocked at how easily Sherlock could turn him on, as simple as flipping a switch. No, Sherlock knew exactly what John was feeling, because he had him right where he wanted him. Both pure lust and helpless need emanated from the smaller man in heat, sound, and scent. That was why his eyes were so wide as he watched the other man smear kisses over the most sensitive part of him. That was why tiny whimpers escaped his throat with alarming frequency, while all over his body his muscles were taut. And that was why, after feeling sufficiently stretched and teased, he fisted a hand in Sherlock's curls to get his attention and barked:

"Now. Need you _now_."

The violent tugging at his scalp made him flinch heavily - his follicles _were_ sensitive, but he'd forgive it simply because of what the action meant coming from John. Shaking his head a bit to alleviate the shock of pain, he brought himself back up to loom over John, wanking himself just a little in a redundant effort to ensure he was fully hard.

"About time. It's been too long since you were filled with me," he said, voice grating and each syllable laden with arousal. He dropped his head alongside John's as he lined himself up, lower set of teeth drawing lazily up the stubble accumulated at John's jawline. When he entered John and that delicious pressure enveloped him, he let loose his usual vocal restraint and let every tiny utterance flow from him like water straight into John's ear, left vulnerable just below his nose. Pithy whines joined John's in a discordant choir of sheer bodily neediness. 

John had only ever bottomed in sex twice, now, but even so this time was much more pleasurable than the first. It was leagues better, much more different as now John was both more stretched and knew what to expect. It was for this reason his body's acceptance of the intrusion was near immediate. He _craved_ for Sherlock to be inside him, and felt a rush of filthy giddiness at the strength of such a craving. His back arched almost painfully, body automatically squirming to find that heaven-sent angle before he felt a pair of firm hands slam his hips down, and he shuddered. The moan that escaped was weak and tight, the stillness almost unbearable.

Sherlock thrust into John hard once and sat there for a moment, just revelling in the feeling of the other man enveloped around him. John grew increasingly restless underneath him, however, so he took up a slow but heavy-handed rhythm, doing his best to angle down as he thrust in for John's benefit. The other man responded by curling his limbs around him possessively, almost to the point it became difficult for Sherlock to move, but he only basked in the coupling all the more.

"I love the way you give up to me," Sherlock rasped against John's cheek as he continued. "The way you  _need_  me inside you. Such a glutton you are. All you have to do is ask, you know," he simpered before pausing sarcastically. "Or  _beg_ , rather, I suppose. You know I don't give up without a fight." He trailed sloppy kisses along John's jawline to follow up his bout of dirty talk.

John keened at the newfound slow, intense pace. It was just perfect, and every so often Sherlock brushed against his prostate which, of course, was all kinds of Very Good. Whereas he might have scoffed at Sherlock's teasing, or even snarled or jeered back, right now Sherlock was creating the equivalent of a lush, full symphony inside him only building up, and John had no mind for sarcasm.

"P-please," he gasped out in the middle of a thrust, body curling up tighter into the one above it and limbs positively chaining themselves around the lean frame. He let out another, harsher cry and again there was that wail: "Please!"

John all but wrung at Sherlock inside of him, stealing what little breath he had left. It took him a few moments to put himself back together enough to pick up a narrative again.

"Yes, love, keen for me. No point in hiding it, your body betrays you. How it tightens around me and aches to suck me dry. Only downside is you can't taste me this way. Apologies," he offered with a sly smirk. Conscious energy exhausted, he switched to a more physical tack and upped his pace. He took hold of John's length and drew a firm line with his thumb into the dampened slit. 

The current shape of John's body was a perfect arc from his shoulders down his back. His head had long since been thrown back and was now straining against the pillow, and when Sherlock's sure fingers took him, he let out an unrestrained sob. The other man's delightfully dirty words implanted in John the image of Sherlock losing control and coming inside him, an image which only made him clench slightly from instinctive want. "Please," he begged in a much higher voice than expected, and the word became a mantra, mixed in with "fuck" and "Sherlock" in a strange, howling chant.

John was being particularly noisy this time, and Sherlock soaked up every last note of pleading greedily. He hitched the other man's hips up a bit and began a frenzied pace to finish their ascent. Engulfing John's mouth with his own, he guzzled down his partner's voice, now reaching shrieking heights as Sherlock pounded him without reserve. He broke away just for a moment.

"I'll come, and spread myself inside while you follow. There won't be an inch of you left that hasn't been touched by me, and will always be there forever." The hand wrapped around John didn't stroke him so much as press intermittently and insistently into the slit and drag heavily over the whole of the head. Orgasm fell in swiftly at their pace, fingers of his free hand digging into the surprisingly ample flesh comprising John's arse. Seeming molten heat filled the infinitesimally small space they both occupied, both intensifying and extending Sherlock's orgasm a touch longer for its effect. All in this time he never completely halted his movement, though it did take on a jerky quality for the seizing of climax.  

John was already tipping over the cliff at the merciless pace. Sherlock's hand demanding climax from him only heightened the sensation, and he'd already started to orgasm when suddenly was wet, hot, and so very _filled_. The added amount of pressure and heat to his already overstimulated prostate made him shoot suddenly and violently across his own stomach, and in the throes of rapture he had the split-second sense to smash his face against Sherlock's shoulder to somewhat muffle the bloodcurdling scream that ripped from his throat. When his body released its full-muscle tension, John sank down into the sheets, breathing hard. He closed his eyes in overwhelming peace but did not release any of the limbs that were wrapped around his partner. He wanted to stay in this moment forever, Sherlock inside him with John wrapped around him, but as that wasn't possible he'd settle for keeping that way as long as long as he could. Sherlock, for his part, balked involuntarily at the force of John's climax.

"You alright?" he managed to utter. It didn't seem as though he was to be released from his John-shaped prison for a little while at least, so he wiggled his hand out from under his partner's arse and framed his face. Sherlock kissed lightly at John's pulse, nipping up beads of sweat accumulating in the crook of his neck with the tip of his tongue. "Seems I did a particularly good job this time," he quipped when John didn't immediately answer. Clearly the other man was still a bit too spent to speak just yet. He felt John's semen sliding between them. "Let me up, love. I have some cleanup to do," he whispered, nuzzling at the side of John's head. 

After the vocal gymnastics, anything coming out of John's mouth would be hoarse for a while. That would have likely pleased Sherlock immensely were this a normal day, as every time the good doctor used his voice Sherlock would be reminded of the howling pleas that caused him to lose it. Today, however, was a different story. And while John could always try and explain away the hoarseness due to a passing cold, he'd rather make a good first impression on the matriarch of his beloved's family. Tea it was, then, and lots of it. But not at the moment. Right now, John could revel in the overwhelming humanity of this moment. He groaned at Sherlock's request, roughly whispering, "Stay," but loosened his arms enough to let Sherlock up.

John's wrecked voice telling him to remain had a surprising effect of Sherlock. Normally he'd glean possessive satisfaction out of it, but instead he felt...well, it was difficult for him to qualify. A thudding almost-pain and heat in his chest. Like his heart was...melting, yes. That tawdry cliche, much as he didn't want to admit it, was most appropriate. He found himself burrowing into John all the more for a moment despite the permission to pull himself free.

"I was never going to go far, you know," he murmured into John's cheekbone. He lifted himself up a bit, pulling out carefully and went back on his haunches. After getting the worst of the smearing off of him with the blanket, he dropped down again and drew a wide stripe with his tongue up John's torso wherever bits of him were left behind. Sherlock certainly didn't share the same voracious appetite for his partner's essence as was vice versa, but it was a small indulgence every now and again. Once done, he plopped right back in where he had been, pulling John close.

"See? Not far at all." He bit down lightly at John's jaw, licking a bit at the underside of his chin. The fresh pheromones still coming off the other man added to the taste of him still on Sherlock's tongue and drew a happy purr from him. "Love you," he said, low and rapturously. 

Amidst the sacred intimacy of the moment, John let out a giggle. It sounded slightly broken in the rough colour of his voice, but the striking felinity of his partner never failed to amaze him. Licking and biting playfully and possessively, as well as the delightful purring made John want to squeeze Sherlock and nuzzle him, though if the other man ever knew why he'd certainly make a face and disapprove of John's perceived likeness. He settled for stroking his fingers lightly through the other's curls and kissing softly at the corner of Sherlock's mouth and chin.

"Love you, too," John whispered, contemplating the dark, sweet, molasses-like feeling that enveloped him when Sherlock said it, in a way that John's own voice could never capture. "Sorry for pulling your hair," he added after a moment in a gravelly tone against Sherlock's jaw. Sherlock shrugged dismissively.

"It certainly got my attention, didn't it?" he said with a snicker. "But yes, if you could be a bit more careful in the future, especially on the crown of my head, I'd appreciate it." He'd done an excellent job during the act of not considering  _why_  he'd fallen on John with such vigour, but now that it had all passed, it crept back in and shadowed his mind. Unwilling to let it spoil their moment, Sherlock buried his face in the crook of John's neck and tightened around him a bit. "Thank you," was just audible past the muffling of skin and blanket. John was here, would go with him; that was the whole point of the outing. As long as he held onto that, and this moment between them, he could get through the day.

Again, John huffed a small chuckle and ran his fingers down over the back of Sherlock's neck, stroking the velvety skin just beneath his hairline. It was obvious from John's rather vocal response that it had certainly been Sherlock who had done _him_ the favour. He said, "You're welcome," anyway, just to be ironic, and punctuated such irony with a light nip to the shell of Sherlock's ear. Holding the man in this way, so loving and comforting after letting the other man do what he did...it was the sort of emotional exercise that kept John on his toes, kept this living, breathing, _changing_ creature in his arms a constant interest to be followed off into oblivion.

"I'll be right here," he assured the other softly, both knowing what he was referring to. "Always right here."

Sentiment tore at Sherlock's ribcage from the inside, struggling to make itself known but unsure how to escape. Sherlock sat up on his elbows above John, effectively caging his head, and searched his eyes for several long moments. 

_I will be difficult. I'm sorry. Please don't forget how much I care for you, even when I become impossible. I know it's selfish to ask, but I can't help myself. I need you._  

All these thoughts and more crowded his mind and hopefully projected on his expression appropriately, because he didn't have the wherewithal to speak them himself, coward that he was. One of the hands alongside John's head nestled in his hair as Sherlock bowed his head to kiss his partner. He pressed into his mouth with passionate but not sexual force, desperate to externalise the overwhelming storm of feeling within him. Simple sessions like this were not something they indulged in often - perhaps that should change, if only for the benefit it gave Sherlock in making his indescribable feelings known.

This type of kiss was not a normal one, John could tell that right away. It was much more emotive than even their most intense kisses, and it blew John away. The simple effectiveness in its communication was what really got to him, when he thought about it. But, oh, he didn't want to think about it. No, he didn't want to think about anything, just wanted to _feel_ , to absorb everything Sherlock was whispering and yelling into his mouth without saying a word, in that almost strange telepathy that seemed to exist between them. He wasn't demanding or lascivious, just responsive:

_I'll be able to handle it. I know you. I know us. We'll get through it._

They kept up for some time, both enjoying the simple pleasure of the act beyond what Sherlock was trying to convey. When they broke apart, breathless and slightly flushed, Sherlock settled right back into the space between John's head and shoulder again. Silence filled in between them - nothing more need be said at the moment, and both had little desire to get up and start the day just yet. One of John's hands spread across his chest; Sherlock slipped one of his own atop it and squeezed it a bit. They should have done something like this last night - he might have actually gotten some sleep. Too late now.

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock was snug against him, and John was content to leave things as they were for the rest of the day. His partner might have even be amenable to that suggestion, as he was bound to grow more and more irritated and irritating as the day wore on. Alas, they could not, but at least every time John took a step or spoke a little twinge in his body would remind him of their coupling - and what a coupling it was. It seemed Sherlock grew _more_ energetic and focused when under stress - something that made sense, but John never imagined it would work to their favor in _this_ way. He leant up to press a haphazard kiss into Sherlock's mussed hair, hands skating comfortably over and back the long plane of Sherlock's back. Minutes ticked by in the continued silence, until Sherlock groaned and buried his face in John's neck.

"I suppose I should go back to doing as I intended and take a shower, shouldn't I?" he asked rhetorically. He peeked up at John through tousled curls. "Come with me?" A tentative smile tweaked the corner of his mouth. He released John's hand and ran it soothingly down his side and continued on towards his thigh. To add incentive to his request, he smeared a few kisses across the skin of John's chest he could reach. "Pleeeease?" he tried, again utilising underhanded politeness to entice his partner.

John lifted an eyebrow at him. Sherlock resembled a petulant child behaving as he did, such a stark contrast to the fierce top from just a few minutes ago. A small, reluctant smile crossed his face and he nipped at Sherlock's jaw before shifting to a half-seated position. "Fine," he replied, wincing and gritting his teeth at the movement inside him. "Get me up and we'll get clean."

Sherlock scrambled off the bed and took John's arm to help him to his feet.

"Are you sure you're all right?" he asked quietly, pulling him close so they were chest-to-chest...or as much as they could be given their height difference. "Was I too hard on you? I...don't think I've yet mastered a happy balance." His hand running up the other man's back bumped over still-healing cuts. He slipped an arm around John's waist and walked alongside him into the bathroom. Once inside, he paused for a moment, glaring critically at the shower, before fiddling with the spigot so it would fill the bath instead. John sighed in relief when he saw Sherlock had opted to fill the bath instead of make them stand in a shower for several minutes. He leant against the taller man's side to take a bit of weight off the center of his body, wrapping an arm around his slight waist. He eyed the water level as it steadily rose and laid his head against Sherlock's shoulder.

"You were just hard enough - inevitable innuendo notwithstanding." He smiled and turned his head to press a kiss to Sherlock's warm shoulder. "In fact, I don't think I've come that hard in years. So...am I alright? Eh, not yet, but I will be. And oh, was it worth it."

Sherlock couldn't help but smirk at the use of the innuendo.

"Then I suppose I'll stop fretting over it. And yes, you did indeed hit one hell of a peak. I'll take it as a compliment." He tugged John back towards the wall and put his back to it, inviting John to lean against him fully. He did, and Sherlock tied his hands loosely about the small of John's back. "I fear for day I hit the inevitable glass ceiling when I don't impress you with my innate sexual talent anymore. God forbid I become _boring_ ," he said, pressing their foreheads together. A light chuckle left John as he leaned heavily against Sherlock's chest.

"I don't think you have to worry about that. I don't think you're capable of hitting any glass ceilings. If you did, you'd just break through them, knowing you. Bull in a china shop." He sighed contentedly, limbs becoming slightly heavier from post-coital peace. "Not that I'd have it any other way. Because God forbid you get _boring_." He snickered.

"Damned right," Sherlock replied, before scrunching his face in contemplation. "Your verbal mannerisms are rubbing off on me, dear lord." The water had reached something of an acceptable depth. "Come on, you," he said, pushing the John back onto his feet. Sherlock kept John steady as he dipped an experimental toe into the water and, finding it palatable, slowly sat down with a wince. With that, Sherlock collected both their kinds of shampoo and set them on the side for easy access before slipping in himself, directly in front of John.

"Now that I stop and think about it, you and I are spending a frightfully large ratio of time amongst each other without clothes on. We'll have to start reminding each other to make ourselves decent before going to a crime scene if we're not careful," he said with a grin.

"Please, that wouldn't stop you," John replied with a snort. "In fact, reminding you of the social obligation of decency might only make you more determined to spite it." He closed his eyes and smiled softly at the gentle warmth of the water. "Brilliant choice, by the way," he added, gesturing around them to the bathwater. He rolled his shoulders back and stretched his neck, picking up the soap. "Though we are spending quite a lot of time naked together, I haven't yet gotten used to the novelty that is your body."

"Whatever you think of me and my disdain for social niceties, I assure you adding 'indecent exposure' to my rap sheet is not on my misdemeanor to-do list," Sherlock said with a snicker. He sunk underwater briefly and emerged in a perfect imitation of a sodden, dark mop before seizing his shampoo and dolling some out for himself. "I agree, however, that you and I haven't performed a complete exploration of each other. We get too caught up in the moment and before we know it, we're coming all over each other. Not that there isn't something to be said for the frenzied approach, but perhaps we should slow it down once or twice. Try to find that one odd erogenous zone. Especially for me - we haven't tried that at all." He began scrubbing furiously at his scalp, tips of his fingers eaten up by the sheer mass of hair atop his head. John tilted his head and smiled a little, watching Sherlock fondly. He wet the soap bar and spread it over his chest, washing carefully to avoid fading bruises.

"Yeah, we could do that. I'm rather interested to see where yours are. God knows I certainly have a couple strange ones." At Sherlock's quick, curious glance, John scrunched up his nose and chuckled. "I'll leave it to you to find them. It's only fair." He soaped up his arms and slowly massaged the back of his own neck. Sherlock's eyes flashed from behind with mischief.

"Ooh, make a game of it, eh? Sounds rather fun. And with me, it will be a surprise for both of us."

"And we all know you love games," John murmured with a smirk.

Sherlock ducked back into the water again to rinse his head. As he came up again, he watched white suds paint over the trauma still evident on John's torso. He pulled himself forward a bit to be closer to John, who spread his knees wide to accommodate his approach. Despite himself and his usual control, he winced ever-so-slightly at the widening of his legs and, by extension, arse.

"How is...all _this_ doing?" Sherlock asked hesitantly, fingertips brushing green and purple skin under the surface. It didn't seem to be actively bothering John anymore, but just because he wasn't externalising it didn't mean anything.

"All _this_ is just fine. Don't worry about it, it doesn't hurt very much. Besides, bruises don't leave scars," he pointed out, splashing a bit of water on himself to wash the suds off his torso. A mischievous grin painted his face before reaching up to muss Sherlock's hair up and push a bit of the other man's shampoo into his own hair. Obviously it wasn't enough and he grabbed his own shampoo, squirting some onto his scalp.

"That they don't," Sherlock replied, suddenly withdrawn. "You..." he began, but his voice caught and died. John stopped in the midst of washing his hair to give Sherlock an odd look. Sherlock cleared his throat and started over. "You haven't commented on mine. I'm not sure whether to thank you, or be concerned as to why you haven't." A bout of self-consciousness took him, making him smooth a hand up his forearm nervously. Why was he even bringing this up now? This was all to be saved for the trip - mentioning it now was just going to do more harm than good, wouldn't it?

Instantly John froze mid-sudsing, soapy hands still in his hair. He slowly lowered them, wetting his hands in the water and smeared the dripping suds from his forehead so they wouldn't run into his eyes. "I... I didn't think you wanted to talk about it," he replied quietly. "I know it's no excuse. I just really didn't want to push. Though I don't know the entire story, I know enough of it to know this is difficult for you. As it should be." His gaze lowered for a split-second to Sherlock's forearm, watching the hand smooth up and down it. "But I would like to know," he confessed. The hand moving up and down tightened a bit, but Sherlock nonetheless nodded.

"No, I appreciate your consideration. And I don't want to...but I do. You understand the sentiment." He dropped his head a bit, which made him able to see faded speckles of needlemarks. They certainly weren't the only kind, nor the worst of them. All across the core of his body were leftovers from his travels abroad - some accidents, some anything but. He still didn't know if he wanted John to know about those. What good would it do?

Something broke in John to see that look on Sherlock's face. He didn't know if it was because of the startling range of emotion that could plainly be seen, or the fact that he could see it so plainly. He scooted forward in the tub, ignoring the stinging from his arse and sloshing the water around them a bit.

"I do understand," he replied, nodding and reaching up to cup Sherlock's face in his hands. He kissed the other man softly. "I _would_ like to know. But you still get to decide what to tell me."

Sherlock leant heavily into the hands at his face and chased John's kiss with a couple quick ones of his own.

"Okay. A little bit at a time, then. Easier for both of us that way." He closed his eyes for a moment to check his internal registry of injuries over the time he was gone. After a moment, he took John's hand and guided it under the water to touch his thigh. "Here," he said quietly, running John's fingers down a long, vertical line, "This is from Colombia. I mentioned performing assassinations I wasn't meant to, against sex traffickers, and almost blew my cover. I got into a hand-to-hand tussle with the last man in a group of three - he had a very unpleasant butterfly knife. It didn't seem that bad at first because I didn't bleed all that much, but I was high at the time and cocaine is a vasoconstrictor. In case you ever wanted to know, it's extraordinarily difficult to suture anything when you're on cocaine." That was likely why it had scarred as much as it did - the immediate wound could have been much worse. Sherlock had just mucked up its treatment.

A twitch in John's brow as his finger traced Sherlock's wound revealed that this would be more difficult for him than he'd thought. Able to see and touch these scars, John was able to approximate how much blood was likely lost, what sort of pain it felt like, what it looked like, the degree of care put into the patching up. He traced his fingers over the long line on Sherlock's thigh once more, then ducked under the water to kiss it. When he brought his face back up his entire head was sopping but his eyes were large. For the first time he spread his gaze over Sherlock's entire body with intention of cataloguing injuries and wounds, realizing how broken it really was. He chose a curving scar just off the other man's lean shoulder and kissed it. "What about that one?"

Sherlock winced.

"I was running across rooftops in Belgium. Jumped into a skip as part of an escape - I nicked something on the way. I'm lucky I didn't get tetanus from it, really." He reached up and swiped away beads of water from the other man's face, reading the distress in it as he did so. "Many of these are from accidents. Don't work yourself up too much over it," he assured at a murmur, giving John a hesitant smile. And it _was_ true - he'd been extraordinarily clever, even for him, in his time away. But when he made mistakes, they had been massive ones. John blinked up at Sherlock, for the first time searching his face for answers the other man perhaps didn't want to give. Sherlock did this all the time - hadn't John picked up anything? And if Sherlock wouldn't say it, asking would only shut him down, so then John had to read the landscape of his mysterious visage for explanations. Luckily for him, he'd gotten better at it. Something still didn't sit right, though, and though John knew he shouldn't have, he still repeated, "Many of them?"

Hesitation, then he pressed forward. In for a penny, in for a pound, right?

"What about the ones that aren't?"

Sherlock went very quiet, though his expression remained mostly thoughtful rather than outright upset. He gathered up John's hands in his and, once most of the water had drained away, kissed the knuckles.

"Those," he opened carefully, "are each a story of their own. But I think the important thing to remember," he said, meeting John's eyes despite his lowered head, "is that regardless of the content in each one, I'm here, with you, right now." More than a little enigmatic, and not terribly reassuring either, but it would suffice for the time being. Today was not the day for those kinds of stories. John lowered his head when Sherlock did, a subconscious mirror to his partner. He held the reserved but steady gaze and nodded slowly after several moments of allowing the words to wash over him, even if they didn't really tell him anything he didn't already know. Right. Not today.

"Not today," he echoed his thoughts, focusing back on Sherlock. John leaned forward and kissed the small space between his dark brows just at the top of his nose. "You're here, and today has its own hurdles."

"Precisely." Still holding John's hands, he brought them back up to his lips again and shut his eyes. "You're so _good_ , John. Impossibly so." He set them back in the water, eyes now locked on the patient blue irises watching him dutifully. "And I am a very, _very_ lucky man." The water stirred as Sherlock got essentially on all fours and crawled to be face-to-face with his partner. "I'm sorry. Both for not talking now, as well as for what I will tell you later," he whispered, one hand pressed to the opposite corner of the other man's jaw while Sherlock's mouth was at John's ear. John knew now how unpleasant all this was going to be between them - he would need his own encouragement as well. Naive optimism was to be exchanged with razor-edged realism, but that didn't negate positivity. If anything, this little exchange made Sherlock just that tiny bit of confident he needed to be to continue. It told him if he could do it once, then, statistically, he must be able to do it again. That was enough.

John inhaled deeply at the surge of powerful warmth to his chest. Sherlock...he truly _believed_ that, didn't he? That John was good. So very good. That he was _lucky_. He didn't know if Sherlock really thought he was infallible, and if he did that made John more than a little uncomfortable. But the greater part of him just knew his clever, insightful partner meant it as an acceptance of every part of him, savoury and unsavoury, and deemed him, as a whole, a good man. And _that_ meant more to John than he could have imagined. He leant into Sherlock's mouth, lightly laying the side of his head against the other man's forehead.

"I'm sorry too," he breathed, hand reaching up to cover Sherlock's on his jaw. "And, I don't care if you believe me or not, so are you. Good, I mean."

Sherlock gave only a quiet, happy breath of laughter in reply.

"You're right, I don't, but I'll take it on your word."

He flipped himself around and settled back into the water, resting against John, who then laid back into the edge of the tub. Messy though the water was with all their combined soap, it was still delightfully warm and Sherlock didn't feel the need to leave it just yet. It would do good for John anyway. He picked up one of John's hands again and examined it, turning it over in his hands and cataloging all the different callouses dotting it. The heel of John's hand became of particular fascination - it was permanently and uniquely marked, most likely from holding a rifle.

"Just so you're aware, Mycroft will be sending a car round later. Not that you're unused to such a situation," he said with smirk. 

John watched Sherlock become engrossed with his hand with a slight fascination of his own, eyes flitting between his own rough hand and the smooth face examining it. He smirked back.

"I have indeed become uniquely and entirely too used to a situation like that," he confirmed, shaking his head a little. "Still, it's not wholly unexpected. No doubt Mycroft wants to remind everyone at the dinner table who's the one with government classification." He paused, during which time his free hand smoothed cupfuls of water through the dark, slick mane of hair in front of him to ease out the rest of the suds. "Though, come to think of it, if I'm correct in assuming your pickpocketing skills haven't declined, he's probably not the only one with government classification."

Sherlock laughed, the sound low and hearty.

"Mycroft is rather difficult to pickpocket, actually. Off his direct person, at least. I usually end up swiping things from his office or abandoned coat. However you speak closer to the truth than you know. Since my departure, I have technically been a member of the British Secret Service. I'm not double-0 status or anything of the like," he drawled, cutting off John's obligatory follow up question, "but I have been conferred with a number of...privileges." He brought John's palm to his face, lips and tongue exploring the weathered flesh tenderly. It was so different from the rest of his skin, but rather accurately summarized his character. The hands, being his outward projection of self to the world, toughened and dry and unyielding. But the other planes of skin hidden away beneath clothes and caution were soft and warm and inviting. Such a perfect parallel dichotomy just for Sherlock to enjoy.

John gave a small humph, watching Sherlock. The image of Sherlock in sharp formalwear wielding a gun had been carted out of his mind as quickly as it had flown in.

"Must have been interesting. I mean, not the bureaucracy part, but the...battle, almost. It just must have been very difficult," he finished, eyeing a particularly long , thin scar running oblique down the back of Sherlock's neck - how had he missed that before when he'd run his fingers countless times over that place? "Did you have to work with Mycroft?"

"Mycroft was my handler. As I've mentioned before, he moonlights under the banners of several less-than-savoury governmental agencies. He was certainly the only person I trusted and was willing to work with. He was the one who gave me the distinction to avoid...issues, were I to be caught. Undercutting sovereignty of other European Union nations is an unpleasant business, to say nothing of America." He kissed the inside of John's wrist, felt the pulse thrumming just a bit under his lips. "And as far as 'battling'...it was periods of weeks upon weeks of surveillance before massive peaks of action. With some people I merely collected enough evidence to put in prisons. Not the conventional kind. Not even Pentonville," he added automatically, "I mean the kinds of prisons governments pretend not to have. People who know very well who I am now that they've been incarcerated, and cannot be permitted to be free again for the sake of my safety as well as others - you, Mycroft, additional individuals who have assisted us." He felt John tense a bit under him. Judging from the angle of his head and what he'd be able to see... "My neck is one of those stories, John. Leave it be for now, please." The request was quiet, undemanding.

John said nothing, just traced the scar with his eyes. Analysing it. Memorizing it. After a moment he forced his medical analysis out of his mind out of respect for the other man, though that didn't pull his gaze away from the marked flesh. In a way, it was beautiful - something to stand out against the creamy skin around it, something to show for the pain and work and love put into those mysterious years away. He wordlessly kissed it.

"Yes," he agreed quietly after several minutes of resting his lips against the back of Sherlock's neck. "I think, for today, that subject is best left untouched."

Sherlock shut his eyes and leaned into John's kiss. When John pulled back, Sherlock readjusted so his head rested on the other man's shoulder and was looking up at him. Hesitant eyes bounced between his partner's face and the wall.

"Not that I expect you to explain right here at this exact moment...but will you ever tell me what happened to you in Afghanistan?" he asked, careful to keep his tone unassuming and relatively light despite the subject matter at hand.

The question caught John by complete surprise - not that it should have, the more he thought about it. They were, after all, talking about battle and scars and trauma of some sort or another. His eyes clouded slightly in thought even as he fixed them on Sherlock struggling not to think about all the things he _could_ tell him. Not today. There had been enough trauma in his life, and enough toying with it in the past twenty-four hours. His gaze sharpened as he returned to present.

"Yes, if you want to know," he finally replied. And it was true. Yes, John would answer questions Sherlock had and tell him if he wanted to know. Eventually. Sherlock turned his head enough to kiss John's neck.

"Okay." That was good to know, but then John would feel as though going into detail about his own injuries was merely fulfilling quid pro quo, given Sherlock's promise. He stirred the water in a fit of restlessness. "I suppose mother wouldn't much appreciate two prunes coming to dinner, yes?" he mumbled. He sat up from John and turned to look at him. "Provided you're feeling sufficiently better, at least." A hand ran slowly down John's calf from the knee. John snickered and leaned in to nip at Sherlock's chin.

"What, you mean being a voiceless, limping prune _wouldn't_ make a good impression?" Stabilizing himself with two hands on either side of the tub, he lifted himself up and stood, sticking out a hand for his mate still seated in the now murky water and hoisting him up too. "I have the distinct feeling I will do something wrong within the first two minutes, because I always do around people like her. But I suppose adding to that inevitable folly wouldn't do me much good. I suppose I should have a shave, hm?"

"She'll be too dazzled by your glamorousness in that suit of yours, I'm sure. You're such a _handsome_ voiceless limping prune, after all," Sherlock countered as he stood. He stepped out first and helped John before wrapping his arms about his waist. "Yes, you probably should shave," he murmured, running the side of his face up and down the bit of roughness. "Shame." He ran his hands up John's back, tips of fingers bumping up his vertebrae. "She'll like you. In a social stratus like ours, honest and straightforward people are a rarity." He straightened suddenly, remembering a comment from Mycroft during the drug lord fiasco. He bit his lip and took John's hands again. "However she _may_ make a pass or two about grandchildren. I don't want you to be blindsided by it, so you should probably know that now. Pass it off however you like. I will back you up." He fixed John with an understanding stare. He didn't need to mention the obvious in his explanation, knowing John would understand implicitly. A sandy eyebrow instantly shot up, but one dubious prolonged stare later, John nodded.

"Alright. Thanks for letting me know." Now he had time to create a mask polite enough to gracefully receive the implications without faltering and without letting slip any knowledge of his past. Mrs. Holmes would likely still be able to deduce some of John's life just in a few glances, but he best not expedite the process at the first meeting. He squeezed Sherlock's hands and fixed him with a small, confident smile to let the other know he was alright before letting go altogether and grabbing for two towels. He tossed one over Sherlock's head and dried his own body, though he didn't use it to cover himself after he was dry. Turning in the nude, John set about the mundane but familiar process of shaving in order to look clean cut for the impending dinner. Sherlock gave a disgruntled 'mmrf' when the towel landed on his head, but started drying his hair without any further retaliation. Once mostly dry he headed back into the bedroom and fetched himself a fresh pair of boxer-briefs. He returned to the bathroom after that and dug out a wide-toothed comb from a drawer. As John shaved, Sherlock hacked at his curls haphazardly with the comb with minimal success.

" _Really_ ," he grumbled to himself, tugging at a chunk of hair in attempt to get it to part appropriately. Most days he let it just sit as it was, but today required more effort than usual. _Just today,_ he reminded himself.

Tongue sticking out slightly out of the corner of his mouth, John was leaning close to the mirror and shaving slowly and carefully, as was his custom, when a ricocheting arm almost caused him to cut himself. He pulled away and glanced over in mild irritation only to have the expression wiped off his face and replaced with amusement.

"Are you...are you trying to part your hair?" he asked in mock disbelief, laughing at the comical scowl he received in response. John left half his face with shaving cream on it and turned to face the taller man, gently pulling the comb out of his hand. "Here, let me. The army guy knows a little about parting hair." He stood on his tiptoes to just barely see the top of Sherlock's dark head, picking through individual curls and arranging them on one side or the other with no more than a few teeth of the comb at a time. He must've looked ridiculous, naked and only half-shaven, on his toes picking through his partner's hair. But to John, well, this was as normal as it got. Sherlock ducked down a bit and bent at the knees to accommodate John.

"Sometimes it does it all on its own. I don't think my hair understands that the laws of physics are supposed to be constants of the universe." He looked up a bit to see John. "I sometimes wish my hair was as manageable as yours, but I cut it as short as yours once and...did not like the results." A wince curled his lip as he thought back on that particular era of disguises. It was a good thing he was looking to pass for average - he wouldn't be caught dead looking like that now that his life had returned to normal. Despite himself, John could not help but smile at the undeniably human characteristic of vanity that was easily displayed in Sherlock Holmes.

"No, not short, then," he agreed, patiently untangling a mass of curls off to the right of Sherlock's scalp. He was sure to be extremely careful, not having forgotten the sensitivity of the other man's follicles. "Besides, I rather like your hair the length it is. It's quite luxurious and...flouncy."

Sherlock's eyebrows drew together in a mixture of confusion and something close to visceral disgust. "I do not _flounce_ in any way whatsoever." He pouted at John in the mirror. "Honestly. Next you're going to describe me as _fanciful_ , or some other godawful term. I do have a reputation to consider, you know." In spite of himself, a tiny smile threatened to crack his theatrical frown as he watched John try not to crack up in the mirror's reflection. John was milliseconds away from snorting in great amusement, but valiantly he managed to keep it in.

"Ah, yes, the reputation. Mustn't dirty it with horrid words like flouncy and fanciful. Who knows what I'll say next? I might even call you frivolous, and then we'd really be in trouble. After all, the reputation of a scientist must remain empirical, must it not?" Finished with his bout of openly making fun of his partner, John also finished untangling, smoothing, and parting his hair. He stood back with a smile. "Oh, yes. Most lusciously flouncy." He turned back to shaving, trying to focus long enough to keep the smirk off his face so he could pass the razor smoothly over the area around his mouth.

Sherlock rather desperately wanted to smack the other man good-naturedly, but given he was still shaving, he couldn't. So, he settled for his best pouty glare and stalked out of the bathroom again. He dressed in his customary way, deciding on a deep red button up with black on top. It was still quite a bit before they left, but he didn't feel like tricking himself into thinking he could relax around the house in a t-shirt and sweats today.

It was a few more minutes before John finished shaving, as he'd been meticulous and made it a close one. No stray stubble, as much as it pleased Sherlock. He was to look clean-cut and put together - almost like he was back in the military. He stood stiff straight in the mirror, lifting his chin just a bit, and saluted himself. Yes, things were starting to look impressive, bit by little bit.

John turned from the bathroom once he was finished, deciding perhaps he should finally put some clothes on. He was about to select his customary jumper and jeans when he hesitated. Sherlock _did_ dislike them...and he wanted to put his partner in as positive a mood as possible...His eyes drifted to a set of clothes shoved in the back of his drawer. They were remnants from his military days, and he more often than not felt silly in them, really only ever using them for workouts. He slipped into slim army sweats and a slightly fitted plain gray t-shirt, hoping to at least subconsciously instill a bit more pride in Sherlock. John snatched his laptop and strolled out into the living room, plopping in his chair. May as well get some work done before shit hits the fan, right?

Sherlock, of course, noticed the difference in outfits, and regarded them with reserved amusement. He followed John out, but stopped in the kitchen and made to prepare some tea for his partner. He'd need it to clean up that hoarse voice of his somewhat before they left. Deciding it wasn't terribly necessary, he shrugged off his suit jacket and hung it carefully on the back of a chair at the table. When the aforementioned tea was ready, Sherlock made only a mug for John and brought it out while it was still steeping.

"I feel obliged to mention I don't _loathe_ your usual choice of dress - it suits you. On anyone else I'd find it completely atrocious, but on you it's simply an amusing fashion disaster," he teased. "I'm merely paranoid about this evening. But I appreciate the effort you're making. I certainly have a new appreciation for fitted t-shirts I never would have expected to hold." He flashed John a quick smile before turning to the desk to use his own laptop. 

John smiled coyly and sipped at his strong tea, leaving the bag in. With one hand holding the mug, he was only able to type half as fast as his normal speed, which was already glacial. He glanced up at Sherlock quickly as if challenging him to make a comment, then decided to take another sip. The warmth sliding down his throat, he murmured a contented "Thank you," already able to feel the soothing of his throat. "What was the name of the jeweler from that South African case?"

"Browns," Sherlock answered, watching John peck at the keyboard from behind folded hands. He let a smug smile of his own make all the commentary for him. Honestly, nearly six years on and the man still couldn't type beyond ten words a minute to save his own life. With a flick of the wrist, he consulted his watch - Mycroft's people would come by in about three hours' time. It would take a while to get to the estate from the city. God help them if Mycroft came along  _and_  opted to take one car. Unlikely; he'd be busy preparing for dinner and mother. As if on cue, his phone on the desk rumbled.

_Mother has arrived from the summer house, so I won't be accompanying the entourage sent to pick you up. Blessing for us both, I imagine. Dinner will apparently be duck. If that doesn't suit John's tastes I can accommodate. -MH_

He ground his back teeth a bit.

"How do you feel about duck?" he asked John, not looking up from his phone.

John glanced up for the second time and gave a quick, cheery smile.

"Mm? Yep, duck's fine," he replied, resuming his typing. It was a bit expensive of a dish for him but it was certainly delicious and John didn't want to add to any sort of hassle he knew would already come on its own time today. He continued typing, casually sipping his heavily concentrated tea for stimulation. Once or twice he glanced up at Sherlock but he seemed to be absorbed in his own world as per usual. John knew him better, though, and could see the stress creases in his forehead and chin.

_John has no issue with the menu. -SH_

Time ground to an impossibly slow cadence of seconds counting in Sherlock's head. After some indeterminable amount of time, he rose suddenly from his chair and took to pacing the sitting room to burn off excess restless energy. His phone went off again.

_Mother requests you stay the night. Before you text your obvious knee-jerk reaction, allow me to remind you - ten years. -MH_

Sherlock could have thrown his phone at the wall from the peak of anxiety that struck from the one simple text.

Enter. Last paragraph. Last line. Last word. Period. John reviewed his case summary twice before submitting. Ignoring thousands of reader comments, both good and bad--mostly bad, as that was just the Internet these days--he exited out of his blog and chanced another glance up at the taller man just in time to see a twisted face looking away from a glowing screen in frustrated agony.

"What?" he asked, immediately on his feet. John stayed out of Sherlock's way as the other man paced, not wanting to impede him from a necessity to burn energy, but remained engaged and intent.

"Stay," Sherlock muttered, only just managing to remember not to rustle his hair and reined in the compulsion. That did nothing to help his base, spiraling frustration, however. "She wants us to stay overnight at the estate. _She_ doesn't even live there anymore. What does she want, to foster some kind of nostalgia for it? It's just a building I spent interminable stretches of time in as a child. It's not home." He spun to stare at John. "It's _not_ my home, John!" he cried, throwing his arms up and nearly sending his phone off into the sofa behind him.

"Oh." John winced at both his own reaction and the thought of staying in an austere, cold manor that probably possessed memories Sherlock wouldn't care to remember. "Okay. Okay, okay." He took a step forward, hands reaching up to catch Sherlock's wrists in the air in a gentle but firm grip. "So we'll stay the night," he said in a calm voice, index fingers rubbing over Sherlock's anxious, fluttering pulse. "Because it is just _one_ night. One night in a place that isn't home but doesn't have to be. We've stayed in plenty of uncomfortable places before. Cardiff. Dartmoor. Just one night. Sherlock, look at me."

Sherlock heeded John's gentle demand and met his eyes. Slowly, he unwound and his arms began to drift down, but still John didn't relinquish his grip. "One night," he echoed. And John would stay with him. He was a grown man visiting family with his partner; given the fact his mother was apparently okay with this, there was no reason to assume they'd be split into separate rooms. As if he'd put up with anything less anyway. He shut his eyes for a moment.

_Grown man, indeed. Temper tantrums and childish, pointless fear aside, of course,_ he thought to himself bitterly. Hands clenched but he reopened his eyes to look at John and let out a long breath.

The second Sherlock opened his eyes John was immediately there. He stepped forward without ever needing to be prompted and hands slipped down from wrists to lace fingers in each other. "I'll not have you forgetting so soon about me right there with you," he said quietly, offering a crooked smile and a crooked kiss. "Right here." Right in that golden sphere where Sherlock's gravity was close enough to affect John, and the two were pulled to each other. He honestly felt as though nothing would be able to topple them. Sherlock was strong, John was his protector, and a simple night with his mother was suddenly revealed to be a simple head of a hydra compared with the leviathans they'd faced before.

A tiny, hesitant smile twitched on Sherlock's face.

"Yes. Right." He squeezed John's hands appreciatively before letting them go to text his brother back.

_Very well. Consider your appeal to my filial duty to be victorious. -SH_

In a roundabout way, he supposed the manor _would_ become home, simply for John's presence there. That's how Sherlock saw it in his mind, anyway. In the scant days and weeks before John agreed to return, even 221b hadn't felt like home. Familiar, yes, but not _comfortable_ or _reassuring_. He'd been terrified after the first few sleepless nights that here, as well, every shadow would be tainted with the past, all the lost promise draining away every last happy memory stored in its walls. When John would stop by, though, it would alleviate, even despite how tense and damaged everything was between them. And now, well...'unthinkable' was the word that came to mind when Sherlock considered the concept of John not living with him. Before, John's possible departure had been disregarded, taken for granted. No longer.

John's whole body relaxed when Sherlock finally lost his tension, and he remained standing in front of the other man until after he'd texted back. _Keep him as calm as possible before this thing,_ he reminded himself. That meant distraction. That meant even though John had practically yelled at him about it before..."How's your experiment with the fingers coming?" he asked casually, trying to instill some ideas into the Sherlock's head of things to do that didn't include shooting or having a fit. A sudden thought came to him; if they were to stay the night, they'd need to have an overnight bag of sorts packed. He decided he'd pack both of theirs to keep Sherlock's mind off the whole thing. He'd never even have to know. It was awkward and painfully obvious what John was trying to do, but Sherlock was nonetheless grateful for it.

"I...actually had to throw them out. The day we went to pick out your suit, and I, um, ended up cleaning..." he said, stumbling over his words at the memory, "they'd gone too long without observation. Not much of a loss - it was only ever something to occupy time." He pulled John into an embrace, partly to comfort himself and partly to apologise. Tension still pulled within him, ready to spring at the smallest provocation, but it was better. "We'll need to pack a bag of some kind, I suppose. Shall we?" he offered as he pulled back, hands on John's shoulders and searching his eyes.

And, as always, Sherlock would see right through John. Which was rightful in itself, both because John was a terrible deceiver and because he didn't really _want_ to ever deceive Sherlock anyway, even if he could. So he sighed and nodded, holding Sherlock's chin gently in place with a thumb and index finger, and leant up for a slow kiss. "Yes, I suppose we shall," he replied when he pulled away. He tugged on the other man's hand and led the way into the bedroom, moving to the closet to pull out a duffel bag.

"I'm assuming we'll both be able to fit our things into one bag. More efficient, anyway, and also I dunno where the hell the other one's gone."

"A single change of clothes each and toiletries. Certainly that should fit." He wandered over to his dresser and pulled out an additional shirt for the next day. He didn't really care enough to pack fresh trousers. Along with that, he snatched up his abandoned t-shirt and pyjama pants off the floor and folded them half-heartedly. Honestly, this was turning out to be a whole  _production_. If he wasn't careful, she might- oh, no.

"What...what if she wants us to come back at Christmas?" he suddenly mumbled, hands clenching anew on his sleeping shirt in his hands. No matter how much of a net positive they'd get out of today, this would be his first holiday  _with_  John. More than ever he eyed parties and socialisation with disdain - a full-on family gathering?  _No._

"We're going to my sister's for Christmas," John supplied easily, picking out his own outfit for the following day. Silence fell in the room and upon looking up to see a halfway horrified look on the other man's face, John laughed. "That's what we're doing according to your mother. It's easy enough to forge, seeing as I usually go and visit her for Christmas anyway." He selected one of the few button-downs he owned and folded it neatly, tossing it in the duffel bag along with a plain pair of slacks. "Of course, you're going to have to be the one to tell her if she asks. You know I'm a terrible liar, but I can sit there and look unassuming well enough."

Sherlock relaxed considerably and let himself smile a little.

"You can't lie to save your life, but your ability to be unassuming becomes all but camouflage for you when you need it. I never have been able to figure out how you do it. That's a suitable enough excuse." He picked up his small stack of clothing and gave it to John to pack. Even for John, he was being exceedingly good about this so far. Completely unflappable. Sherlock sat on the corner of the bed on the side John stood at, just watching him for a bit with a small, almost lovesick smile blooming on his face.  

John pursed his lips slightly at the stack of clothing Sherlock gave to him but said nothing, and set it neatly in the duffel. He turned and ruffled through the drawer, pulling out a pair of boxers for himself and one for Sherlock - the man may be able to wear the same pair of trousers for two days, but John wasn't about to let him go around in the same pair of pants, as well. He threw them in the bag as well as a couple pairs of socks for good measure. Turning to step into the bathroom and collect their toiletries, he caught sight of Sherlock's face.

"You're looking at me as if you're a puppy and I'm the hand that feeds you," he teased affectionately, running his fingers through one side of Sherlock's hair so as not to mess up the part. Sherlock balked.

"I..am doing nothing of the sort," he argued, flushing a little. "If there is any animal I am akin in appearance to, it's a horse, John. And your hand doesn't so much as  _feed_  me as it does-" John cut off the remark with a swat on the shoulder, clearly trying to keep a straight face. Sherlock chuckled and tugged at the other man's hips until John bumped into the mattress. "And if I  _am_  being disgustingly sentimental - again, not that I am doing so in the least - it's probably because I continue to be impressed by your unflappability." He took John's wrists in each and waved them side to side a bit in a show of restlessness.

The attempt to keep a straight face immediately vanished, replaced with a rare, unrestrained smile. John leant down to kiss down Sherlock's forehead, the bridge of his nose, and down to his lips, capturing them firmly and just a tiny bit forcefully before reluctantly pulling away. None of that now. They'd _just_ gotten clean. Kisses left searing marks on Sherlock where John placed them, no doubt enhancing the effect for the fact they couldn't be escalated upon. "First of all, if you're a horse then there's no hope for the rest of us, because I happen to think you are the most gorgeous creature I've ever set eyes on - and that includes Claudia Schiffer." He smirked a little, brushing a thumb across Sherlock's kiss-stung lips. "And secondly...I'll always be there for you when you need me. You should know that by now."

"Who on Earth is Claudia Schiffer?" Sherlock asked, completely confused. "Please don't tell me you're comparing me to some...secondary school crush or something equally mortifying." He caught John's wandering thumb between his teeth and brushed it with the tip of his tongue. He left unspoken the follow-up sentiment, mostly because it was redundant and they both knew how much he hated that. 

_I do know you're there. Sometimes I'm just a little overwhelmed by it._  

As he contemplated the mystery woman further, a interesting question crossed his mind.

"In fact, on the topic of women, is sex qualifiedly different with them?" he asked, head tilted with intellectual interest. "The mechanics are much the same, I imagine, so I fail to see how the experience could be terribly disparate."

John actually snorted in laughter.

"Figures you wouldn't know who she is. Claudia Schiffer is a famous model - for good reason. I mean, she's...anyway." He skated his other calloused palm over Sherlock's cheek. "Sex with women is _extremely_ different. For one thing, they smell and taste different. And I know everyone's different, but I've come to a general consensus that there's less of...an equality, in the act, if that makes sense. They're generally softer, and with notable exception of a few I've generally not been as rough most of the time. With some I almost feel like I'd break them. Which is fine, I mean, you know me, I'm a care provider. But, sometimes it is nice to just let loose once in a while." A tiny gleam spread through his blue irises, but he didn't elaborate because he didn't need to.

Sherlock waggled his eyebrows in acknowledgement.

"So, 'notable exceptions', eh? Interesting. You refer to my seemingly frail figure quite often and that doesn't stop you from all but trying to tear me in half." But then John always had an odd perspective with women. Vaguely misogynistic for its insistence that women were so easily 'breakable', or needed to be taken care of, but certainly loving and thoughtful. "But I suppose it makes sense you'd be more willing to be rough with me, given the general intensity of our relationship, and certainly the last two weeks of it." This felt like the longest week of his life; day to day when he remembered how little time had passed, he was floored by it. 

John shrugged and slipped away with a kiss to the top of Sherlock's head, stepping into the bathroom and dutifully picking out their toiletries for the night. He supposed he hadn't really considered the juxtaposition of sex with women to sex with Sherlock. It _was_ sex with _Sherlock_ , because he hadn't really had much experience with other men besides the detective and he had no desire to gain any more. It was true that Sherlock possessed certain physical characteristics that would classify him as more feminine, but that wasn't the base of John's attraction to him. It never was, not even for a moment. He selected their things and collected them into a general toiletries bag, carrying it back out to the duffel on the bed.

Sherlock raised a curious eyebrow at the blase response. Another question crossed his mind, but instantly he clamped down the morbid curiosity it fostered.  _So what had sex with Mary been like?_   _That_  was a bridge too far, even Sherlock could appreciate that, but nonetheless it itched incessantly at his consciousness. To sate it somewhat he took a few moments to consider just  _why_  he wanted to know. Certainly a part of it was competitive interest, but that was really quite minor; a large chunk was his continued interest in John's life in the time he was gone. Sherlock, having no sense of conventional boundaries or shame, just considered it more data along with everything else. And, then, of course, Mary herself was of great interest to Sherlock as well. What kind of woman she'd been, how she'd approached her life with John. Because it would have to have been unique to accommodate John in his infinite, subtle peculiarities, not the least of which being his grief over the loss of what at the time had been his best friend. 

A moment later the duffel was out by the front door, not to be forgotten - as if the event could have been forgotten at any point, anyway. He appeared in the doorway of the bedroom once more to find Sherlock still seated where he was. John leant against the doorframe and crossed his arms, surveying his partner.

"You want me to see if there's an interesting case floating around? We've got about two hours before it's time to leave. You've solved plenty in under that time."

Sherlock didn't answer, still lost in thought; in fact, he never noticed John leave and return at all. This line of thought provided a nice distraction in the interim. He realised he lacked quite a bit of data on John's life with Mary. It wasn't exactly a topic to be inquired after endlessly. Perhaps there was a way to acquire that sort of information  _without_  asking John at all. Surely there were pictures, at the very least a wedding album somewhere. The way John had talked about it the other day, it seemed like their marriage had been something a large affair. His logic train was filed away into the mind palace for retrieval later - it wasn't as if he could go sniffing around the house now. He didn't have time, and John would certainly have to be absent...perhaps...perhaps on the anniversary, Sherlock would have an opportunity. He would have to be exceedingly careful to ensure John never realised what he'd done, for fear of upsetting him at such a crucial time. Still, it was a good, solid plan.

Receiving no reply from the other man, John frowned slightly and left, knowing that when Sherlock was in his mind palace he was about as good as catatonic - as well as the fact that most often the detective preferred to be alone when indulging in intense thought anyway. He padded out to the living room and flipped on the telly absently. Background noise, and excellent it was, too, because BBC One was currently in the middle of an at-best mildly interesting program about architecture in the Dark Ages. He decided to check and reply to his email and fan questions from the blog - mundane things, really, but he took a small pleasure in the fact that there were people out there that were interested in what they did. Once his gaze flitted to the recently unused folder at the corner of his computer, and smiled despite himself. No need for that anymore. John dragged the folder of porn over to his trash bin and deleted it without a second thought.

When Sherlock resurfaced in reality, his head all but spun on his neck as he realised John wasn't in the room. 

"John?" he called as he stood. He found his partner in his customary chair, flitting through something on his computer. Knee-jerk compulsion almost had Sherlock wrap his arms around John's neck from behind and over the chair, but just in time he remembered himself and the situation. So instead he kept going and picked up his still-unfinished book on forensic botany. Holding the book open where he left it with a thumb, he sat himself down on the floor immediately in front of John's chair, edging each of his partner's legs a bit wider to make room for him. Tall as he was, the top of his curls could just be seen over the edge of John's laptop from where he sat. He began reading.

There was never a word uttered between the two, and honestly there might never need be for the rest of their lives together. John widened his legs to make more room for Sherlock, afterward melting them back around him snugly as he continued typing. Once or twice he liked to look up to just barely see that shining head of curly dark hair, not a spot's evidence of aging whatsoever, and he waited until Sherlock turned a page to look back to his work on the computer. He supposed the pauses in typing could be considered bouts of thought by Sherlock, and he was quite content with his unseen, unnoticed admiring. As he was scrolling through legitimate reader questions about cases, he passed more than one obligatory comment referring to them in a homosexual relationship. Whereas he might have arched an eyebrow and rolled his eyes in irritation at the fascination people had with sexualisation, now he merely smirked. Well, they weren't _completely_ off base.

About an hour and a half passed in silence - normally Sherlock wouldn't pay the slightest amount of attention to any elapsing of time, but today, obviously, required it. Even though he didn't  _want_  to notice, he still did. He tugged at John's pant leg.

"You should probably get ready," he suggested quietly before bending his neck to kiss a vulnerable kneecap. That was one bonus, he supposed - he had yet to see John in the full, properly-fitted ensemble. He stood and took his own chair so John could get up as well. No need to follow after him and add credence to John's comparison to puppies from earlier. God help him if that ever caught on. 

John glanced over at the man in the chair opposite him. Sherlock really was anxious, it was emanating from him in large waves even as he was trying to contain it. John closed his laptop and stood, placing it on his chair. He moved into the bedroom really as an appeasement to his partner more than anything, because he knew he was a man who took no more than ten minutes to get ready, merely needing to brush through his hair and throw some decent clothing on. And oh, what decent clothing he had tonight. John smiled as he took his pressed suit off the back of the door, carefully laying it on the bed and changing into it. He stepped up to the mirror in the bathroom and straightened out the material.

_Ah, yes,_ he thought, _Sherlock will be proud tonight._

It didn't occur to him even for a moment that perhaps Sherlock was proud of him every night.   
  
He stayed at the mirror for fifteen more minutes, patting down stray hairs and brushing at his teeth vigorously and generally grooming in often superfluous and unnoticeable ways. When he came back out to lean against the door frame of the sitting room, he nodded towards Sherlock.

"Well? Are you going to finish getting dressed or not?"

Sherlock glanced up from his book at John's voice; his eyes widened as he did a double take and blinked furiously. John didn't look too terribly different from the original fitting, but the little details were what really mattered, especially to a man like Sherlock, who saw every last one. Only the top button on the jacket was done, and the way John leant against the doorframe folded the fabric to perfectly outline the shape of his jaunted hips with sharp angles cutting down his torso. The shoulders sat perfectly, accentuating the natural broadness of his shoulders without making him look like a top-heavy meathead. He hadn't slicked his hair back - merely combed it out and left the fringe delightfully forward, giving him just enough of a ragged, casual edge. The light-blue shirt remained unbuttoned at the top, much the same as Sherlock did his. It also peeked through at the waist, given the loosened buttoning on the jacket. The cufflinks he'd picked out glimmered tastefully off John's wrists. And, finally, a crooked smirk sat on his partner's face, perhaps a bit smug for knowing how much of an effect it would have on his partner.

Sherlock remained silent in the chair, nearly losing grip on the book in his hands.

 


	19. Chapter 19

Soft, musical laughter swirled around the room ,and John took a step forward just to see what Sherlock would do. It seemed to bring him somewhat out of his stupor because he jolted a bit, and the smirk on John's face was replaced with a devilish grin.

"Come on, then, love," he teased lightly in a low, lilting voice. He took another few steps forward and tilted his head, holding out his hand. "We've got to get going soon. Certainly you'll not want to be late..."

Sherlock raised a tentative hand and wrapped it around John's to assist in standing.

"Yes, late," he murmured, staring John down. He didn't seem to mind the leering one bit, as he still grinned mischievously up at him. _Christ_ how he wished they didn't have to go anywhere tonight. Sure, he'd purchased the suit for this specifically, but now that Sherlock _knew_ how they looked on John, he may just have to start getting used to having sex with clothes on. He relinquished John's hand and slipped it carefully into the other man's jacket, almost afraid he'd somehow mar the visage of perfection he was being treated to. Tilting his head and dipping his chin, he caught John in long, languid kiss, only just managing to restrain the desire for more right then and there in the sitting room. When they parted, Sherlock continued looming over him for a moment.

"Best four thousand quid I ever spent," he said with a completely lascivious grin.

John balked and snorted at the same time, producing an odd and wholly unattractive sound so different from the easy confidence of his once before. He tried to make things less embarrassing for himself by lightly hitting Sherlock on the arm.

"Four thou...Christ, I'm really going to need some time to remind myself I've fallen in love with a millionaire." His playful smirk returned seconds later, however, and for a wild moment he contemplated blowing Mycroft and his mother off and rumpling the new, _expensive_ suit until it was almost beyond repair. He sighed at the imagined bliss. No, that wouldn't do. Another time, perhaps. "Go get dressed, wanker," he muttered, cheeks pinking a bit at the lovely images conjured up in his head.

Sherlock winked as he turned away to nip up his suitcoat. He slid it on and walked over to the mirror in the living room for one last quick check of his collar and lapels. Satisfied, he returned to John's side.

"I think it goes without saying how impeccable you look," he offered quietly as he put on his customary trench as well. "Hm. Didn't buy a formal coat for you - quite an oversight on my part. But then I insist on wearing mine even now, in the summer. I suppose you don't need one at the moment." There was a knock at the door. Showtime. He gestured for John to head down the stairs first. His partner shrugged and made to leave; Sherlock took the opportunity to get a good handful of his arse as a last-minute amusement before things had to get completely serious.

John almost fell down the stairs with the duffel in his hand at the contact behind, and he shot down the stairs as if he were a cat whose tail had caught fire. At the bottom he whipped around to fix a darkened stare on his mate coming down the stairs after him, jaw slackened. "You..." The corners of his mouth quirked up and he turned away then, shaking his head, because he was already ready to ditch this occasion in favor of Sherlock already, and if he didn't end things now he was going to take him right in the stairwell. He composed himself and opened the door to the chauffeur.

"Hullo, sir, you must be our ride."

The man looked amused and slightly pleased to be called such and answered, "Yes, sir, I am. The elder Mr. Holmes, unfortunately, could not be with us for the ride, as I'm sure you're aware. He sends his condolences."

"None needed," John replied cheerily, and the chauffeur obligingly took the duffel from his hands, leading the way to the sleek black car. Very much Mycroft's style. John slid in first, making room for Sherlock to slide next to him.

Sherlock gave merely a nod to the driver as he passed before slipping into the car after his partner. Moment of fun now over, he began meticulously replacing his usual cold mask for the general population, and reinforcing it for dealing with Mycroft and Mother. He had no room for pouting and anxiety now. The time was upon them, and Sherlock had to remain keen in order to understand just what his family wanted of him. Or, at worst, be ready to head off possible disdain of his choice in significant other. Mycroft could say all the positive things he liked about John's character, but at the end of the day, the man _was_ lower class, and while it was something of a big deal for those below looking up, it was infinitely more important for the aristocracy, looking down.

John could feel the mask slipping on, too, as the atmosphere became distinctly less easy, less familiar. He supposed Sherlock balking at his ability to look unassuming earlier was, for the most part, easily explainable - that's just how he _was_ , most of the time. Sherlock had his invincible, emotionless mask, and John had his modest camouflage. He understood why they were both easy enough for them each to achieve, because both had been cultivated over decades and had become very much a part of them. As the car pulled off the curb and headed off, John's gaze remained out the window. He didn't look over at his partner but just slid one warm, reassuring hand down to rest on his knee.

Sherlock parted his fingers to allow John's to weave between them on top of his hand. It was a good time of day to get out of the bounds of the city, but it would still take time - it was in the country, after all. Over an hour. He caught the eyes of the driver and gave him a surreptitious nod. Surprisingly understanding eyes blinked back and, a moment later, a tinted visor rose up between the back and front seats.

"There. Bit of privacy. Good driver, though. Probably a government official but I might just tip him nonetheless," he said, trying to stay conversational. "Anything last minute you want or need to know?"

John smiled slightly and squeezed Sherlock's hand in his just a bit.

"I don't want to get too much into the heavy stuff, as we _are_ just about to go see your family, but I'd just like one last quick overview of what your mother is like, really. Her demeanor, and all that. Don't want to jump headfirst into all this without knowing a lick of information."

"You're a guest," Sherlock began, staring out the window on his side, "so you will be treated with utmost decorum and afforded every courtesy. Do not hesitate to ask for something if you truly wish for it - food, accommodations, or otherwise. She is looking to make an impression of her own, too. Don't forget that. People would likely regard her as stern and detached, however you're accustomed to me, so I doubt you'll have trouble working with that. She's all but prodigious with the piano. It has long been a habit of hers to be incredibly well-informed on current events of every stripe - social events rather require it. Her tone is direct, but not overzealous. Is that enough of a summation?" he asked, turning to look at John once more and was met with a patient blue gaze.

"Yes, that's good. Thank you," John replied quietly. Mrs. Holmes didn't seem like that terrible of a woman. Certainly more put-together than Sherlock, though once he really thought about it, John wasn't sure if that was an entirely good thing. He would likely get little to no feedback from the woman about himself, but that was entirely alright - he wouldn't try too hard, and if she wanted to let him know what she thought of him, well, John was under the impression she was the sort of woman to let him know in some way or another. He kissed Sherlock's shoulder.

"Oh, and before I forget," he said suddenly, "I want you out of there if you get too uncomfortable, alright? So, if you want to say some sort of phrase or word, just to let me know, I can adjust accordingly, because I might not entirely know when you've had enough."

Sherlock broke into a bout of cynical laughter.

"Oh, John. How I long for the benefits of your casual upbringing. I should have elaborated - whatever decorum you are to be supplied with will be expected of you, too. And people like us are the type to fix the reserved, polite smile and sit through everything to the last. Oh, she'll allow you your assorted faux pas, she almost certainly knows you general background," he continued, "but abrupt abandonment during dinner is something that simply doesn't happen except for under grievous circumstances. Like the threat of death, for example. We should be left to our own devices leading up to the meal, but once we sit down, there is no leaving until Madame Holmes feels it appropriate."

John's brow creased deeply, but he didn't remove his hand.

"Alright," he said slowly then fell silent, slipping into his thoughts. It made sense; though John had never operated under a household that had any kind of reigning head - male or female - she obviously was, and he could adjust. It wasn't a matter of whether or not he'd be able to behave himself, it was just a different set of rules. And he likely would have a few faux pas, as Sherlock had put it, because he was simply still learning said rules. Of course, he'd been in the presence of dignitaries before - he'd been a ranking officer in the army, for God's sake - and he could treat it much like that until he got his bearings in the world of the sophisticated.

"In fact, to give you a bit of a handicap, follow at the very least this rule: if she tells explicitly you to do something, _do it_. No questions, no arguing. Even if it sounds like an unassuming request, just do it. Everything else is passable in terms of mistakes made." He picked up his hand so their palms met and fingers intertwined again. "Mother is with most people stern, but not unyielding. Above all she will seek to make us - more specifically, you - comfortable as much as she is able. That affords you much leniency and a certain amount of respect. Active sabotage is not her style; she is far too intelligent and nuanced for it, unlike other women of her social standing. Any disdainful action will almost certainly be directed towards me, unless you specifically anger her. And you won't."

"I won't," John repeated, but he wasn't sure if he was simply reassuring the other man for his sake. Disdainful action, as mild as it sounded, was still extremely hostile in John's eyes if it was directed at Sherlock. Though he knew he _likely_ wouldn't say or do anything to mar his own reputation in Mme. Holmes's eyes, the truth of the matter was that, deep, deep down, John honestly didn't care one bit about what she thought of him. She didn't hold any legal power over them, Sherlock _certainly_ was adverse to seeing her, and so far all John had received information-wise painted her as simply an immovable figurehead of a powerful family. Daunting, but then he'd faced much, much worse. A small smile cracked Sherlock's otherwise passive expression and he raised their joined hands to kiss the back of John's.

"It's a lot of information, but you've always been quick on your feet. Instinct serves you well in every arena, and will here as well. She is shrewd, and reads people well, but don't expect my, or much less Mycroft's, level of ability. That, it seems, is a gift that only we were given in such quantities. Neither I nor my brother have ever managed to understand how that is the case. However that means you have considerable leeway in verbal dodging." This was good - they had a feasible game plan, a united front. Whatever happened, at least he had that. John sighed in relief.

"That is considerably good news. And I suppose I don't really have to deal with Mycroft much, as he already likes me...I think. Well, then. That's a big weight off the shoulders." He lifted his palm up to expose Sherlock's and pressed a small kiss to the center of pale flesh before fitting their hands together again. "Sherlock?...Just how big _is_ the estate?"

Sherlock pondered the question a moment, staring at the ceiling of the car.

"I've never known the actual number, but somewhere around eight hundred square meters, I imagine. That's the estate, mind you. Mother lives in a smaller home elsewhere. It used to be the summer house, but once Mycroft was of proper age and status, he took the estate and mother moved further out into the country. You will probably find it incredibly ostentatious. I noticed last time I was there with Adler that Mycroft hasn't bothered to redecorate since father had possession of it. He probably doesn't spend much time there at all, in fact, given how busy he is and how inconveniently far away it is from the city." 

"Well, that's...I don't know if I've ever _seen_ a home that huge. I s'pose there's a first time for everything." John blew a bit of air through his cheeks and let it out slowly. He looked past Sherlock out the window on the other side to see London flashing by, eventually turning into suburbs which would then lead into the country. "I've never encountered class strife before," he murmured reflectively. "I mean, there's always those in the army that come from well-to-do families who want to please their parents, but there were rankings to sort out who was higher than who. Never experienced it in its pure state."

"The aristocratic class likes to keep itself well-insulated. Short of the tabloids stalking the royal family and whatnot, they do a good job of staying away from the commonwealth. I wouldn't call what we'll be doing this evening as anything akin to 'strife', however. If you weren't at least somewhat approved of, we wouldn't be here right now. Perhaps mother has relinquished her fastidious attention to detail regarding the family's outward appearance. Though I am such a thoroughly avoided topic with my parents at this point, it's likely more that I don't have enough visibility to matter anymore. This is a matter to be kept in the family - the ruling class  _is_  still a bit behind the times regarding...people like us," he finished, nodding between the two of them. Sherlock smirked. "Just another way my existence irks the endless effort to maintain a tidy balance in the aristocracy."

John's mouth widened into a sincere smile and he leaned up a bit to kiss Sherlock's jaw.

"The commonwealth, as it were, is hardly any more with the times, if at all," he assured the other. "Mum had a field day when Harry announced who she was. She wanted a son-in-law so desperately..." Despite himself, he chuckled lightly. "I suppose things didn't work out too badly for her, then." He stretched a little against the back of the leather seat, attempting to keep the ache out of his body. They had a trying night ahead of them, and it wouldn't do to get tired out now. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"I can only imagine how Harry opted to reveal that, given her flair for dramatics." The suburbs had given way to relatively empty freeway and green pastures. Fifteen minutes and they'd be getting off it and ten minutes after that they'd be there. This being his last chance, he sidled a bit closer and wrapped an arm about John's shoulders. "Not much longer." He took a long moment to appreciate John in his getup once again and returned to staring out the window. 

John turned his head to look at the other man when he heard Sherlock's rumbling voice, and nodded a bit to show he heard him. He waited until Sherlock had returned his gaze out the window to nudge his head into the little dip between Sherlock's lean shoulder and his slender neck, the tip of John's nose just brushing the skin of his neck. Sherlock smelled heavenly from here - there was no masking his inherent scent, being so close to him, and it was dark and enveloping. Here, too, there were no illusions about his marble skin. Instead of cold, smooth, and hard like a statue, he was soft, warm, and so very alive beneath John's head. The doctor closed his eyes and made a game of it to count Sherlock's heartbeats and determine his heart rate.

Sherlock allowed himself a small, happy smile and readjusted his arm so it enveloped John more as well as pulled him closer. His acclimation curve regarding his comfort with physical closeness (at least with John) had been surprisingly shallow and easy. Now, being parted from him for a considerable length of time was growing irritating and tiresome in the same way he viewed interacting with normal people for extended periods. He knew he still needed to find a nice balance between the two - it wasn't like he could anchor the other man to his hip indefinitely. For John's sanity as well as his own, because eventually he would become irritated with _too_ much intimate proximity. Their life was still ironing itself out in the wake of the kidnapping as well as their declaration of each other's feelings. Once things gained their new version of normalcy, life probably wouldn't appear too terribly different to anyone on the outside looking in than it was six months ago. Except maybe for all the moaning and carrying on night to night; he smirked at the thought.

After they lapsed into comfortable silence, the ride became much shorter. It helped that they'd talked through most of it, anyway, but perhaps they should have lapsed into silence sooner because the remaining time moved much faster. The car pulled up to the long, wide cobblestone driveway bisecting a primly neat and impossibly green lawn that seemed to stretch for kilometers around, and very well might have if it weren't for the looming, austere infrastructure rising up out of the verdant sea. John's eyes widened.

"This...is your childhood home?"

"Astute observation as ever, John. Try to keep the gaping to a minimum," Sherlock answered, unable to keep a smirk from his face. The car pulled up to the entrance steps, where he could see Mycroft waiting along with another, older man. The way they parked demanded John get out first. He did, toting the bag along with him. Sherlock slipped out almost immediately behind and approached his brother. 

"Good lord, this isn't the social season, Mycroft. I remember how to get around. John," he said, turning to the man in question now that the obligatory introductory insults were past, "give your bag to Virgil. He'll see it ends up wherever we are staying overnight." He narrowed his eyes at Mycroft as he spoke the last word. 

Mycroft's lip curled up slightly, the only evidence that Sherlock's words had been heard at all. His mouth quickly reformed into a tight, thin line.

"I'm sure you understand the sentiment of the tired old phrase about shooting the messenger," he replied pointedly. With a curt turn of the heel, the elder Holmes turned on his heel and made his way back up to the front door, wordlessly leading the way. John obediently handed the duffel to the man presumed to be Virgil, who took it with practiced ease.

"Right," he muttered under his breath, drawing his shoulders up to full height. He set himself into a well-known demeanor of reserved strength and began to trail behind Virgil and Mycroft, Sherlock in tow.

Sherlock cast a look over to the right as they mounted the stairs. The gardens seemed to be coming in well this year - perhaps he'd take John through them later. He recalled telling him about how he used to wandering the hedges and bushes when he was a child - now he could show him it in person. Looking forward again, he saw John glancing back at him with a raised eyebrow. He shook his head and gave him a tiny, reassuring smile. They arrived in the atrium. Virgil continued on towards the east wing to drop off their bag. Mycroft turned to address them, but Sherlock beat him to the punch.

"Where is she?"

A moment of hesitation as the elder Holmes got his bearings, and Mycroft brushed off the abrasiveness with the ease that could only come from a practiced politician.

"Madame Holmes is in the west parlor," he answered with a touch of reproachfulness, "as always when there is intimate company. She'd like to have a little chat as they finish preparing dinner. She will be waiting for you."

Sherlock only just managed to bite back the urge to roll his eyes and instead nodded curtly.

"Of course. Shouldn't keep her waiting, then. John," he said, jerking his head off to the left. "It appears we're expected." Before leaving, however, he held his brother's eyes for a long moment, silently inquiring after the situation, as well as mother's potential mood. He'd never admit it, but something about being back in this house made him feel...closer to Mycroft again. Or at least less openly antagonistic towards him, when his anxiety wasn't skyhigh, that is. It wasn't conscious sentiment, of that he was sure. Mycroft gazed right back with eyes that might have been expressionless neutrality to anyone else, but to Sherlock they were cautious eyes. They slowly drifted off his brother's face a little to the right, then dipped at the last moment with a little turn of his head before he blinked.

"Virgil will be finishing your room during dinner," he spoke a little louder to the both of them as Sherlock turned away. "Provisions have been made to the utmost comfort for your stay."

John had begun walking in the indicated direction, but he quickly realized he didn't quite know where that was. He glanced back just in time to see Sherlock turning away from his brother with an unreadable but tense expression. John lowered his gaze before it became involuntarily questioning, knowing some things were better left unspoken and right now, Sherlock was not to be provoked.

Interesting. Mycroft apparently didn't know what to make of all this either. He continued on towards and past John in wordless cue to follow him. Down the main tributary from the hall, left, then right. The room looked out over the naked hills, the garden being on the east side. Their shoes tapped and echoed against the dark wood paneling, giving away their approach all too obviously. He didn't much like that; he'd rather sneak up in socks or bare feet, like he once did as a boy. Stalking the hallways with a paper hat a stick appropriated from the lawns. Stealthily he'd creep into rooms where either Mycroft or his mother were before pouncing and demanding all their treasure with whatever growls and hollering seemed most threatening in a six-year-old's opinion.

He stopped in the middle of the hall a moment and shook his head free of the memory. One hand ran briefly across his brow, and the other involuntarily wandered back to look for the body waiting behind him.

A warm, leathery hand slid into Sherlock's waiting pale one easily. John was relieved, to be honest, that Sherlock still wanted - or, perhaps, needed - that reassurance. Yes, perhaps it was not a conscious effort at all, and Sherlock would retract the moment he became aware of it. Still, it was somewhat of an odd comfort to know the man hadn't completely slipped into his impenetrable steel armor yet. John's hand tightened silently in Sherlock's, and his shorter legs walked quickly to keep in time with longer ones as they made their way down the hall and turned.

He kept John's hand in his only a few moments longer. Now was not the time to show the ease of his familiarity with John. The door was open - no time to stop and reconsider one last time. The point of no return had been stolen from him, but perhaps that was a good thing. The time since he'd last seen her was suddenly brought to the forefront of his mind; ten years _was_ a long time. Granted, for three of them he hadn't seen much of _anyone_ , so. He took a deep breath and crossed the threshold. She was standing near the tall windows with her arms crossed, looking out on the grounds. The hand he could see was minutely tightened - she was nervous, too. That made him feel a little better. A minute twitch was the only sign she gave of noticing their approach. She turned, and Sherlock's eyebrows lifted; she was so...much greyer than he remembered. Still tall and proud, unbent by age but a bit more wrinkled. She wore a smoky, silvery dress - not glittery, tastefully iridescent.

"Sherlock," she said, voice quiet and lilting. As she approached, she took him in, eyebrows quickly drawing together in reserved concern. "Heavens, what did you do to your face?" A careful hand sailed up and hovered a moment over Sherlock's dulling but still-visible bruises from last week. That he had completely forgotten about. He went a little pale and blubbered.

"I, um...just an occupational hazard, mother. It's fine." His eyes sank to the floor, glassed over in something close to panic.

_I am such a sodding moron._

Clearly not convinced, she nonetheless let the matter go for now and turned to address John, regarding him with a polite but no less sincere smile.

"You are Doctor Watson, yes? Miriam Holmes. Pleased to finally make your acquaintance." She held out a hand in casual greeting.

Let it be known that John Watson was not a deducer. He was the heart of the operation, the intuition where the other was the brain and intellect. He was a senser, and as such he didn't take a moment to study the hand being offered him, though he perhaps should have. The only things he calculated were his own actions, as they were the only things he could well and truly control. He took the woman's hand firmly but not tightly, though in her case the initial caution at her possible frailty was quickly disproven as she grasped his hand with just as much vitality as he did hers.

"Pleasure's mine," he assured in a polite but not fake voice, quiet but not weak. "Just John is quite alright."

"Very well then, John," Miriam said, her smile widening a bit at John's cordial tone. "As I'm sure Sherlock has deduced and told you, I've known of your presence for some time. Mycroft speaks very highly of you, and I am pleased to see it does not appear to have been exaggeration." She turned and drifted towards a pair of loveseats facing one another. Gesturing to the one opposite for the two men, she sat alone across from them. 

"Mycroft has informed me this development between you two is very recent. Given the timing, tell me, John, have you harboured such feelings for my son very long?" she asked. Sherlock bristled where he sat and angled forward a bit.

"Sherlock, dear, calm down. I do not intend to question the veracity of John's dedication to you. We both know you are perfectly capable of ascertaining that yourself. I am merely curious as to timeline," she preempted easily, raising a placating hand. "Please," she regarded John, tone unwrinkled by irritation or concern. 

John started a bit at the forward question, but tried to compensate for the seething reaction of his partner next to him by remaining calm and collected. One of them had to keep his head, and John knew, tonight especially, it was going to have to be him. Not that Sherlock's touchiness was unwarranted - John would have been the same if they were in a similar situation with _his_ mother. "For approximately five years, ma'am." He chanced a glance over at the taller man. "Since about the second day I knew him." 

Though the reaction itself was mild, Miriam was clearly quite surprised by the answer. Sherlock allowed himself a moment of preened satisfaction in light of John's easy reply.

"Well, then. I had long doubted Mycroft's assertion you two were, in his words, 'denying the overtly obvious'. He clearly has better perspective than I. Was it the same for you, Sherlock?" she asked, turning to her son and softening her tone further to allay him.

"No. I took me a bit longer to realise," he said slowly, forcing himself to maintain his mother's gaze. "And even so, I didn't think John would ever return any sentiment. But..." he hesitated and glanced over at John, who nodded, "being away three years can shift one's perspective. Considerably."

"Still, you have been home nearly a year. Why not immediately upon your return?" Miriam asked.

_So she doesn't know. For once, Mycroft was prudent._

Sherlock turned and caught John's eye again. _However you wish to explain._ He loosened his pretense of cool detachment and sat back, letting an arm slide behind John's shoulder in a quiet show of solidarity.

John faltered. He didn't outright _splutter_ , but it took every ounce of his self-control not to. He hadn't been expecting...What had he been expecting? Perhaps for Miriam to already have known the situation, so he wouldn't have to speak of it? Perhaps for Mycroft to have already explained, in that cold, tactful way of his?...That would certainly be easier. Less work on John's part. But was it not better this way? After all, now he could explain or not explain exactly the way he wanted, without fear that the woman had some preconceived notion of his life. He cleared his throat. The gentle weight of Sherlock's arm around his shoulders was reassuring, but John knew he couldn't look over at Sherlock right now. Best to focus on the task at hand, and retreat into his partner's steady embrace later.

"Well, to tell you the truth, ma'am, I was in mourning. Sherlock was sensitive enough to understand that I needed time to...to gather myself, because you see, while he was away I met someone else." He managed a polite half-smile, but not more than that. "And she made a widower of me." 

Miriam's polite facade cracked considerably in shock. She didn't try to recover or cover up and instead leant towards John.

"Forgive my lack of prudence," she said quietly but emphatically, "I had no idea. Mycroft must have been thinking of your privacy in not mentioning anything to me. Magnanimous of him, but leaves me caught rather unawares. I am terribly sorry for your loss. Sherlock's disappearance on top of that must have been nigh unbearable."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he listened to his mother speak, watching carefully every last twitch and word choice. She was...sincere. Exceedingly so. Not a trace of ulterior motive or falsehood to be found. He couldn't recall the last time he'd seen his mother so outwardly empathetic. What on Earth was this?

Miriam turned to look at Sherlock.

"To show such restraint and respect, Sherlock," she said, a hint of a smile just visible, "how... _kind_ of you." The surprise in her voice was unmistakable, but neither was the glint in her eyes. _Pride,_ Sherlock thought to himself, shock now beginning to form in his own expression, _She's...proud of me?_ He bit the inside of his cheek and blinked away the thought, however a slight flush built in his neck.

"I have the utmost respect for both John and his late wife. It was no bother."

In all honesty, John hadn't known what to expect when the news was dropped, but it certainly wasn't...this. At once he viewed the matriarch of the Holmes estate in a new light. Sherlock had never even hinted at her capability to have this sort of reaction...but then again, his partner looked just as surprised as he was. John almost felt as though he were intruding in on a private, long overdue moment between mother and son. He'd had plenty of these moments with his own mother, but Sherlock...John forsook a glance at Mrs. Holmes for gazing at the man seated next to him, and he seemed to transform before John's eyes. Subtle changes, though they were - but then they were always subtle with Sherlock and after all subtlety was all that was ever needed to change worlds about him.  
  
Now, then, was the appropriate time to slide his arm around his mate's slender waist, returning and completing the silent show of solidarity. With another, almost yearning moment to gaze at Sherlock, which John told himself was alright since the other man wasn't actually looking at him and he could perhaps get away with it, he turned to address the matriarch of the house.  
  
"I'm very grateful for Sherlock acting as he did. I confess I honestly don't know what I would have done without him. You have...if I may be so bold, Madame, you have quite an extraordinary son." 

Sherlock was now red to the ears, desperately trying but comically unable to control his body's betrayal of his internal mood. He could feel John's eyes burning into the side of his head but stubbornly avoided his gaze, staring instead somewhere past and to the left of his mother's head. Miriam stood, a small but sincerely warm smile on her face.

"So it seems, John. A fact neglected overlong." She took a deep breath. "Introductions being well behind us, perhaps I should see to the status of dinner as a proper hostess would. Excuse me," she said, voice a touch thick. Nonetheless she left with measured step and left them alone. The second footfalls were no longer audible, Sherlock dropped his head in his hands.

"Okay." The word was a sort of filler, a pause until John could recalculate the situation and react accordingly. He wasn't like Sherlock. He couldn't read people as easily as he wished, and though he had a natural way of playing into something smoothly, he needed to first establish what that something was. Soon, however, the word turned comforting and John slid his arm up from around Sherlock's waist to wrap across the expanse of the man's hunched back. His other hand came to rest on Sherlock's knee. "Okay, okay." He sucked in a breath, eyes flitting over his partner's shielded visage. "Hey," he tried quietly, nudging Sherlock's shoulder with his nose. "Okay?"

Sherlock drew in a long breath before sitting up again.

"Yes, fine." He stood as well, smoothing out his jacket more out of nervousness than any real need. "I have no idea what is going on, here. It seems like she...it's just..." The window caught his eye and reminded him of the gardens at the other end of the manse. "Let's go outside. We'll be summoned once dinner is ready, so we can do whatever we like." He extended a hand down to John, careful placidity replaced on his expression. Mother was...something to be calculated further at dinner, once he had more data. John stared at the hand a moment, then looked up at the mask that had slipped back on. He nodded, letting out a tiny sigh.

"Yeah. Yeah, of course. Sounds lovely." And it did; summer nights such as this were warm enough to only require one layer and often the breeze was refreshing instead of chilling, if there was any breeze at all. John slipped his hand into Sherlock's as he stood, more just for the touch than the actual assistance in getting up. He kept their fingers laced together and allowed the man to lead him out down the hall outside, playing over the first meeting in his head and thinking, really, that this might not be so bad after all. 

They passed Mycroft in the entrance hall again as they made their way out. He stood at the top of the stairs, peering down his long nose at them. Sherlock met his gaze briefly, telling his brother all he needed to know. Mycroft responded with a surprised arch of an eyebrow before turning to leave. They went out the way they came instead of out the east wing - they might run into mother that way. He steered them both towards a side entrance into the gardens. Late afternoon light filtered through the massive trees unimpeded by any cloud cover.

"Do you remember that night you asked me about what I was like as a child? Thiss is what I was referring to when I said I wandered around on the grounds. In particular I enjoyed pretending the shrubs were secret tunnels," he said, pointing to long lines of low brush serving as barriers around the gardens.

Once actually outside, the difference in atmosphere was enormous. It was much less stifling, much less...oppressive. John allowed Sherlock to lead him through the gardens, admiring the summer bloom of flowers as they went. His hand tightened instinctively when Sherlock began speaking and his stomach turned excitedly. Truth be told, John was unbearably curious as to Sherlock's childhood, though of course the proper amount of tact was required for a subject so delicate. He smiled down at the line of shrubs, able to imagine a lanky, dark-haired child weaving in and out among them.

"Mycroft once said you had the ambitious desire to be a pirate," he commented.

Sherlock froze mid-step in surprise.

"Did he? I..." Sherlock turned to look at an elaborate bit of landscaping as opposed to John, "I didn't think he remembered that. Yes, I did. Impossible sentiment to hold, of course," he said quickly, trying to recover face, "and certainly not one I hold any longer." John gave a sarcastic hum of acknowledgment, clearly not convinced. Sherlock gave an irritated huff. "It's not as if I'm about to run off to Somalia and try and rob oil tankers, John. Honestly. Though the lack of organised law in international waters is ideal for someone with an affinity for 19th century clippers and burglary," he continued haughtily.

John chuckled lightly to himself, swinging their hands between them a bit in a move of levity as they strolled.

"I wasn't trying to make fun," he amended, attempting to appease. "If you ask me, that's...well, of course I wouldn't make the mistake of calling you _adorable_ again, but it's quite heartwarming - and extremely

characteristic of you - to imagine a little boy practicing his sailing and sword fighting skills." He shrugged. "We all do it. When I was young I wanted to hunt dragons."

"Characteristic of you as well. Shining knight and all that. Disgustingly honourable and judicious." He took a few private moments to imagine a young version of John stalking amongst the greenery with himself as a boy, waving plastic swords about and jeering at each other.

"Hey, it wasn't all about the honour. To my young mind, dragons were also just extremely fun to tussle with."

After taking a quick scan of the area around them, Sherlock stopped and pulled John close. He buried his nose in the other man's hair and let his arms circle his shoulders loosely. "I didn't ask if _you_ were alright," he said quietly. "You did very well. She won't inquire after it again, don't worry." There was no need to say what, specifically, he was referring to.

His gaze sobered immediately when Sherlock pulled him close and he let himself be held protectively for a moment. "Thank you," he murmured into his partner's chest as he reached out to curl his arms around Sherlock's slender waist. "I'm fine. Really." He pulled back just slightly so the taller man could read the sincere look in his eyes. "I didn't mean to embarrass you, but I _did_ mean every word."

"I know you did," Sherlock replied into John's hair. "It was...affirming to hear someone say that to my mother so overtly." He relinquished his hold on John and took just his hand again. "However much she approved of you before, she certainly _likes_ you now. She also appears to have some minutia of respect for my ability to make my own decisions. That, too, is refreshing. Of course, she's almost certainly kept appraised of my efforts to...straighten out."

John offered the other a small smile and cupped Sherlock's chin for a moment, merely taking him in. He leaned up to press a quick kiss to a soft, full pair of lips and chuckled when he found them chasing after him, stealing a few more kisses before he curled his fingers over the back of Sherlock's hand and turned his head to watch a light breeze ruffle through the flowers.

"She'd be a fool not to," he murmured, following the ripple in the foliage with his eyes. "I'm glad she likes me." He turned back to face Sherlock, eyes searching. "You know it wouldn't have mattered if she didn't, though, right?"

"To you? Yes, I know. Nor would it have ever mattered to me, either. However well this goes, you are the priority. Always." Sherlock set out again walking hand-in-hand with John. "You are somewhat acquainted with familial isolation. I knew you would take whatever end in stride. In fact, the both of us are perhaps a bit more put off by the positivity we've seen so far, hm? But you and I are rather used to and anticipate the worst-case scenarios." Despite his continued misgivings, he allowed himself a tiny flicker of optimism for the rest of the evening. It wasn't as though he need admit to it or follow through on anything, he reminded himself. Even if Mother was merely looking to soothe her own ego for actions in the past without thought to Sherlock's well-being, he was more than willing to entertain the illusion for the sake of keeping the peace. John nodded and hummed out a small sigh as they walked.

"Well, if you anticipate worst-case scenarios, you can't really be disappointed, can you?" He sent a half-smile in Sherlock's direction, eyes flickering up to the turning sky. The blue was scattered now, swathed in yellow and just barely a touch of pink to signal the shift from day to dusk. "Besides, no matter what happens, I'll still go to sleep next to you at the end of the night."

"Accurate on both counts," Sherlock replied with a half-hearted smile. The latter was by far more important, but he had to admit if the former spiralled into disaster, he wouldn't handle it well. He caught sight of a suit making its way down the steps leading to the east wing - Virgil. He nudged John. "We are summoned." With one last tug at John's arm to steer him to the left, Sherlock released his hand and compulsively straightened his outfit. He took a deep breath and picked up something closer to his usual long stride to meet the butler amongst the shrubbery. John's mouth flattened into a thin, anxious line. The nervousness for himself had long since evaporated, and now it was solely his partner for whom he was concerned. He followed Sherlock up to the older, dignified-looking man, and Virgil gave a quick bow of his head to acknowledge them.  
  
"Sirs, if you'll follow me, Madame has gotten word that dinner is to be served." He turned curtly and led them in, and John was at once glad they had this handy little man because the Holmes Manor had proven to be much vaster and more needlessly difficult to navigate than he'd previously imagined.  
  
Once inside the dining room, they caught sight of Mycroft and Miriam standing politely and silently next to their seats. The elder Holmes brother flicked his gaze over the two as they came in with Virgil, and one glance into his eyes revealed a mixture of mild irritation and reserve - he was nervous about the whole affair, as well, though not perhaps quite to the degree of his brother. He gave a nod of acknowledgement to the two of them.

Sherlock regarded his brother with a raised eyebrow - he was a little _too_  nervous. Their exchange in the hall should have been enough to allay any concern of his, or at least the lion's share. Had Mycroft assumed everything would end in disaster? He wasn't particularly angered by the sentiment - Sherlock  _himself_ had assumed as much. But even his brother wasn't so cruel as to  _hope_  for things to end badly. Why, then, the worry?

 _Left hand in his pocket but for the pinky, which is twitching; upper button on the vest undone; just a touch of sweat on the brow_  - this was Mycroft bracing for impact. Which meant he knew something Sherlock didn't. They sat at the table, Sherlock outwardly unmoved. A quick glance of Mother revealed nothing, and he maintained confidence she hadn't been lying earlier. So that meant Mycroft alone was aware. Too quickly, his brother unfurled his tableware and reached for his glass of water. He'd made a  _mistake_ somewhere and was nervous. But how? Did mother tell him about her faux pas with John? Yes, likely so, but no, he wouldn't be so shaken over that, and would have long since apologised to John. Indeed, the fact that poised, mannered Mycroft hadn't mentioned that at  _all_  yet, surreptitiously or otherwise, was evidence in and of itself - he was  _distracted_. Dread sunk in his gut, but he continued with the motions surprisingly untarnished by time, now eagle-eyed for the slightest show of trouble. 

Miriam set herself at the head of the table - the home was, after all, still hers when she resided in it, regardless of Mycroft's name on the deed. She caught John's eye as he sat and gave him a genuine, if reserved, smile and a nod of concession as further apology for earlier. 

"It is  _very_ satisfying to have both my sons with me at the table in far too long," she murmured, casting a glance over each man at the table in turn. "I would hope it could be the start of a trend."

Mycroft had seated himself off Miriam's right shoulder. Sherlock and John were on her left. As the platters were brought out by various cooks and people John had never seen before but Mycroft and Sherlock knew fairly well, the elder brother managed a smile that was really more of a grimace. The air was fairly palpable with unease at the notion, and the head of the table looked expectantly to her oldest son.  
  
"Mother, of course you know that with my current job as is, it is hardly possible for my schedule to be regular enough to fit in such things as trends."

"Considering the bar has been set at once every ten years, I think even your schedule can accommodate a gap smaller than that," she replied smoothly. "God forbid the two of you suffer each other long enough to remember why you liked each other in the first place." A shudder and a set jaw from each man was the only reply, but Miriam appeared unmoved, perhaps even a bit amused. "At the very least I would appreciate the opportunity to acquaint myself better with my new son-in-law."

Both men on the left started visibly, Sherlock nearly dropping his fork and John coughing weakly into a freshly-poured glass of wine.

"Mother, we haven't  _eloped._ "

"I'm aware of that. Your actual marital status is of no difference to me - John is clearly part of your family, and as such is of ours." Mycroft cleared his throat suggestively. Miriam turned and gave her elder son only a raised eyebrow. He wisely stowed any further sarcasm and seemed to all but recoil at the look. A smirk twitched at the corner of Sherlock's mouth in amused appreciation. 

"We...will discuss the likelihood of such a request," Sherlock finally replied with a quick glance at John. "Cases come up spontaneously, as does John's work at the clinic." 

"And you say your brother is incapable of diplomacy, Mycroft," Miriam commented lightly, a smirk playing on her face as well.

Mycroft's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly and he picked up a glass of white wine, very nearly going for the scotch tucked off to the side, as was his preferred drink and conveniently a good diffuser of stress. But he would not grant his mother and brother the pleasure of knowing he was ill at ease - John likely wouldn't even notice - and sipped passively at his wine before setting it back down.  
  
"Yes, though I imagine that is largely John's influence."

John himself was suddenly hot under the collar. His head was spinning a bit and he wished he hadn't taken such a large gulp of wine. He flattened out his napkin in his lap, nails digging into his knees for the briefest of moments. Mrs. Holmes didn't seem altogether unpleasant, but monthly - or _weekly_ \- visits, during which Sherlock would be coiled like a spring and John would need to be gracious while she picked him and their relationship apart - He blinked to flick away that train of thought. No use getting riled up right now. He managed a small smile and looked across the table.  
  
"So this is your home, Mycroft? It's quite lovely."

Mycroft gave a conciliatory nod at John's comment, clearly not all that enthused about forcing conversation.

"This is the ancestral home of our family, passed from father to eldest son. The plot itself dates back to the nineteenth century, though the house itself isn't quite that old," Miriam supplied, noting John's paling complexion and both her sons' strained expressions. Sherlock was resolute in staring at his picked-at food (no change in  _that_  in ten years, apparently), so she caught John's eye once again. 

"And you needn't worry, dear. I have no intention of dragging you hither and yon on a whim. An annual visit is enough to placate me," though the words themselves were prim and a bit stiff, her tone warmed and softened them. "I think we all here are aware of the fragility of the floor beneath our collective. No need to press upon it. Forgive a mother for trying to glean a few moments with her children." She paused a moment in consideration. "In fact, John, I consider you a blessing to this family. This never would have happened without you. More than that, however, you have been a blessing to my son, specifically. I don't typically prescribe myself to such notions, but it seems to be nothing short of intercession of Fate herself that you descended into Sherlock's life at such a...turbulent time."

Mycroft and Sherlock stilled and went deadly quiet. Miriam turned to look at them, clearly confused. As she opened her mouth to speak, Sherlock abruptly stood from his chair and fixed his brother with an expression just this side of murderous before turning and striding out without a word. Mycroft put a hand to his brow and could just be heard swearing to himself. John understandably made to follow Sherlock once he recovered from shock, but Miriam raised a hand.

"It seems I've yet again spoken out of turn. John, stay a moment. I would like a word." Narrowed eyes measured her request. "Time has not dulled my estimation of my children, and as such I assure you Sherlock is not interested in speaking with  _anyone_  right now. Please, dear. I know Sherlock believes I have some kind of ulterior motive, but I swear to you that isn't the case. He has every right to think so. Mycroft, you have an apology to make to your brother," she continued without turning to address him, tone brooking absolutely no argument whatsoever.

Panic shot through John as he was bidden to stay; he obeyed out of respect, but his eyes continued to look anxiously to the open door through which Sherlock had disappeared. Only after Mycroft curtly left the room to follow after his brother did John turn to face Miriam again. Very slowly, very decisively, he sank back down into his chair and offered her his reserved gaze.

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a mild TRIGGER WARNING for discussion of drug use.
> 
> Additionally, I feel it pertinent to mention that the work up until now was written in late 2012-2013, long before series 3 aired or was even entirely cast, hence the disparity from what Sherlock's parents ended up canonically being. Mary is indeed meant to be modeled physically after Amanda (and somewhat along the lines of her IRL personality), but that was simply for our own convenience at the time, and ended up becoming fact. So yeah, in case anyone was wondering about that~
> 
> Next chapter will contain further and greater trigger warnings, but will be appropriately listed when that happens. Just a heads-up.
> 
> As ever, enjoy, friends~

Miriam relinquished all pretense and leant forward on an elbow against the table, hand to her temple.

"I am so sorry you've been subjected to our own particular brand of dramatics," she opened, "Mycroft had said you were aware of Sherlock's past abuse of narcotics, and I foolishly assumed that meant every last detail. Some things, of course, are more difficult to share than others. The sentiment I'd spoken of was apparently part of that. I think perhaps some of it is information _I_  shouldn't be privy to, given Sherlock's reluctance to speak on his indiscretions."

John appeared more concerned than anything else; there was a hint of hurt at being kept from the truth, but nothing disastrous. He likely had long since grown accustomed to having to chip away the truth from her son.

~

Once outside the dining room, Mycroft glanced both ways down the hall before decidedly turning left. The rooms on this side held more significance to Sherlock's childhood than the other, and since he hadn't been here in ten years, his childhood all but dictated his memory of this place. As he walked, Mycroft cut into the ornate rug with the heels of his sharp, expensive shoes, glancing about him for signs of his brother. Once or twice he wiped his brow, and very briefly adjusted the collar of his pressed shirt. Mentally he flicked through all the places Sherlock was likely to go; he was looking for sanctuary, somewhere he could feel safe enough to either calm down or expel his emotion...

Mycroft's head snapped up and he took a hard right down another hall, striding to the ostentatious carved double door at the end of it. He flung them open and cautiously peered into the library, finding his brother's tense form standing over the desk by the window.

Sherlock seethed anew as he heard the doors open behind him. He'd removed his jacket and tossed it carelessly in the chair next to the desk. 

"For being employed by a  _secret service_ , you are shockingly inept at keeping them," Sherlock spat without turning around. "And now John knows, too. What I would give to just once have a sliver of privacy. Spout your obligatory apology and go. I have nothing to say to you."

~

"When you two met, Sherlock had only recently returned to the city. Two weeks or so. That's why he had been searching for a new flat. Mycroft paid out the lease on his last one as part of Sherlock entering rehabilitation for heroin addiction almost four months previous." Miriam spoke slowly, clearly burdened by having to admit to the truth. "Sherlock likely asked Mycroft to keep the particulars from me. He couldn't hide the fact he was in it at all - it wasn't his first time - but even at rock bottom he was aware the specifics might be too much for me. However excellent Mycroft is at deception, I suspect he was rather desperate as well. And upon realising I wasn't being told the whole truth, I was... _very_  insistent for greater detail."

John's mouth dropped open slightly in shocked revelation, but he snapped it shut and nodded stiffly to show his understanding. In a family like this, he couldn't imagine how many secrets there were and reasons to have such secrets and general relationship motivators for deception. He'd now certainly been exposed to the complexity of relationships in high society, but he hadn't had the faintest inkling such an intricate web really existed until faced head-on with it.

"Ma'am, I admit I don't really quite know what happened to Sherlock in the years before we met. I mean, I _know_ , but I don't know everything, as you said. I've just...sort of been trusting him to tell me what he feels is important to know and forcing myself to not really worry about the rest." He cleared his throat and compulsively adjusted the collar of his shirt, but after a bit of a pause he continued with greater confidence. "I can tell you I've been there. Literally, I've conducted searches of the flat before, for...things. You know. Just to make sure. But each time I come up empty, and I think to myself that it's all really rather silly. Yeah, it's a part of who he was - who he is - but if he doesn't want to share all of it then I can understand that." His thoughts briefly flicked to Afghanistan. "We've all got parts of us we'd rather others not know, and I know you're his mum and everything so you can't really avoid it, but I've come to the general consensus that it doesn't really matter. The details. They wouldn't change what I think of him."

For a few moments, Miriam's concern faded and was replaced by a watery smile.

"You're letting him tell you in his own time - as it should be. I merely assumed given all this I should provide some context. I'm not telling you this out of fear you'll leave, or that I am trying to manipulate your opinion of him. Far from it. You are a good man, John. I haven't seen Sherlock this happy - and he is, I can tell, despite all the stress - in ostensibly two decades at least. That means the world to me, though I imagine not as much as it means to my son himself, and I have no desire to interfere with that." She stood and took the seat Sherlock vacated to be a bit closer to John.

~

Mycroft's mouth pressed into a firm, thin line and he stood his ground.

"I _apologize,_ " he deliberated, enunciating his words in an aggressive but not insincere way. His voice was devoid of any softness and one could at once see the frightening expanse of power he held on a daily basis. "But I will not simply leave you here to sulk whilst your companion suffers in discomfort without you. I would like to _discuss_ , civilly, and I don't much care if you would not."

"What is there to  _discuss_?" Sherlock mocked, still not turning to address Mycroft directly. "Would you like me to pontificate on the source of your lack of trustworthiness? I just assume you get it from father." He was aiming below the belt and knew it; he just didn't care right now. Hopefully he'd piss Mycroft off enough he would leave and Sherlock would finally be rid of the last frayed tendons of connection between him and his brother. They'd each kept them out of misplaced sentiment - now Sherlock just wanted them gone. Surely Mycroft did, too. There was no need to camp on him with a camera in fear he'd run off to get high anymore, so what was the point?

Mycroft bristled and stood straight as a pin. "Turn, face me and at least _pretend_ to be a man," he snarled, voice sharp as the snap of a whip. "Do you think I enjoyed walking this tightrope between you and Mummy for years? Watching her wither while you were off doing God knows what? You weren't _there_ , Sherlock, when she was crying over your bedside. You weren't _there_ when she begged me to know what happened with her son because he hadn't spoken to her in years. She was going to waste away from the pressure of knowing but not knowing completely." He was breathing deeply now, chest rising and falling noticeably. "I am sorry for my transgressions," he continued, though his voice was considerably more controlled. "Are you sorry for yours?"

~

"I believe you completely when you tell me that it changes nothing of your appreciation of Sherlock, but you  _do_  have the benefit of never having seen him at his worst. It's...not entirely true that I haven't seen him in person in ten years. It's only been about six. Once I wrestled the whole truth from Mycroft, I went to see Sherlock in detox. He doesn't remember; it wasn't long after he was admitted, so he was still working through withdrawal. Terrible as it is seeing your child suffering as he was, it is all the worse for knowing you are a direct cause of it." She stared down at her lap, eyes fluttering a bit to keep her glassy eyes at bay. "Apparently he had overdosed in the days leading to his admittance. Very uncharacteristic of him...well, you know how fastidious he is. For being a complete wreck, he was always careful about that, at least. If there's a reason for it, neither of them have ever told me. Not for a lack of trying on my part; Mycroft wouldn't speak of it."

John turned to face her in his chair a bit to accommodate her shift in position. His sandy eyebrows drifted up in faint shock and he sent out a brief but forceful thanks to any higher power that may have been listening that Sherlock didn't die in that overdose that night. It was terrifying to consider, but because of his addiction John might have never met the man who changed his life.

"It's true, I don't know what he looks like at his worst," he replied quietly, eyes flicking down in a brief show of a reluctance to tempt fate, and a little sigh escaped him. "If one thing's for sure, Sherlock certainly knows how to keep a lid on things regarding his emotions." He frowned, flicking over the event in his mind and turning it over in his head. "I have no idea, but he can be...volatile, when he loses that control. As I'm sure you know." He grimaced.

"You're quite correct. Sherlock's tolerance is high, but when it fails..." Miriam shook her head. "Failure though I am as a parent, I thought this was my one chance to begin anew, regain even a shred of my son's trust before I pass. For both myself and my late husband, I suppose. It's too late for him, and now, apparently, it is for me as well. Karma demands I continue to pay for my pride." She sat back in her chair, hand over her face. "I apologise, you did not stay to listen to an old woman blather on about her ineptitude."

"You didn't invite your family here to suffer for it," John countered gently, bringing a hand up to rest on top of the back of her chair - not exactly a friendly movement, but a familiar enough one. "I understand the kind of turmoil your family's gone through. I'm not going to say I understand it completely, nor am I sure I really want to," he said with a small smile. "But I get the familial crisis thing. You're not the first to fall victim to your pride, but you also wouldn't be the first in a line of people who've managed to overcome it. Which means that you _can_ do just that. Look, I'll be the first to admit: I was hesitant to come, because from what I know of Sherlock's description, this isn't the warmest of families to, er, enter into. Sherlock's not completely blameless, either, but I think if...pardon me, if you can both get over yourselves, then you can most definitely have your son back."

~

 _"I_ wasn't there?" Sherlock hissed, turning and advancing on his brother with shoulders hunched, "Why should I give a damn about frightening and inconveniencing _anyone_ in this family when not a single one of you were there for me? _Especially_ you!" He was shouting, now, and accentuating his particularly emphatic words with flailing hands and pointed fingers. "Father? Fine. Mother? She was trying to save face for the family's name. But _you_? You have no such convenient excuse to leave me toiling about _alone_. And what in God's name do you mean by 'crying over my bedside'? Christ, you didn't let her _visit_ , did you? Are you mad or just that utterly emotionally tonedeaf?"

"Both, apparently," Mycroft replied, his usual stony expression and icy tone back in place. He still stood stiff and at attention, not budging an inch even as Sherlock came charging toward him like an agitated bull. "I was not there, _brother_ , because you didn't want me there. You never did, and you have always made that _abundantly_ clear. And if, by some twisted sentiment, you actually did, it was only to be able to push me away when I would attempt. So _forgive me_ if I have better things to do than play into my younger brother's pride."

"I was _eight_ , Mycroft!" Sherlock bellowed.

Nothing more followed it, however, as he began to realise how much he'd let slip. In his rage, he had torn aside his own veil and let the wounded, frightened visage of his youth see light of day for the first time in years. With a family such as theirs, what did Mycroft expect? To this day he didn't really know how to ask for help and comfort - John just let him take it without question. Add to that the confusion of youth, and it was a recipe for disaster. He turned and stalked back over to the desk, seized a crystal ashtray and flung it off to the right more out of frustration with himself than his brother. It shattered against a bookcase and silence filled in after the tinkling of leaded glass subsided. He returned to staring out the window, arms crossed.

"As ever, you only put in the minimum amount to ensure I don't just kill myself out of stupidity or despair." His voice no longer contained heat or emphasis, only resigned chill remained. Several moments passed before he spoke again, much more quietly, "And to answer your question: yes, I am sorry, though I'm _sure_ that comes as a shock to you."

~

Miriam gave a sad sniff of laughter.

"Humility isn't exactly a dominant Holmesian trait," she said, "but your confidence in saying so gives me a tiny measure of hope. You are right, and I shall try. It won't do to leave Sherlock to take the first step. I'm not sure he will, now, and regardless of that, it would be unfair of me." She folded her hands in her lap and stared at them for a bit, a little reluctant to speak. "He was gone so long, pretending to be dead. I don't know what he was doing, but I'm sure it didn't make for a holiday. Is he...well? Does it trouble him? He's troubled enough as it is, after all. Tries though he does to emulate Mycroft's natural detachment, he has always been...softer."

"I love that about him," John said immediately, then flushed a bit. Still, he continued. "I mean, it's one of the many things I love about him. Mycroft is cold, detached, but Sherlock isn't quite there. He tries to be, but he can't be. And to be honest, I'm so grateful for that." John pondered the situation and how quickly things had escalated and changed. Just a couple hours ago, he was extremely nervous and contemplated skipping the ordeal entirely in favor of making a night of it with Sherlock. Now, here he was, speaking in a gentle, casual, almost familiar way with a woman he wasn't sure would ever speak to him in such a manner. "I hope you don't mind my saying this, but despite everything..." He indicated the empty seats around them of the Holmes brothers. "I am pleasantly surprised to have met you."

"Thank you," Miriam replied, a bit of colour rising to her cheeks as well. "I can't imagine you had a very positive impression of me before arriving. Now if I could only reiterate this ease with my own son..." She sighed heavily. "Time and age have reacquainted me with my proper priorities I should have held years ago. That was also true of Sherlock's father, as well. Before his death he was increasingly repentant, especially since Sherlock was doing so well with you. We kept up with your work on our own reconnaissance in addition to Mycroft's information. A posthaste attempt to be proud parents, but nonetheless." She reached out and put a hesitant hand on John's arm. "And I am thrilled to know you provide my son with much that he has sorely lacked for entirely too long. I am honoured to have met you, and relieved you are willing to listen to me."

~

The second Sherlock turned away to look out the window, Mycroft brought a hand up to his face, rubbing at his eyes and swiping his forehead. He blinked a few times and remained silent for a long while, simply studying the profile of his brother. Finally:

"I did not know you cared enough to desire more than the minimum." He let out a long but quiet sigh, eyes traveling to the shards of the ashtray lying off to the side. "It doesn't surprise me. I know you are not lacking in your ability to feel remorse, simply in your ability to show it." He paused, thoughtful and exhausted. "I suppose all of us are guilty of that."

Sherlock shivered a bit at a sudden chill in the library. Because _obviously_ it couldn't be anything else.

"I suppose I can't blame you for wanting to distance yourself. You were a kid as well. I certainly would have, had I the option. But yes, I..." His voice died on the word 'wanted', even now his Holmesian pride stalling the truth. He ran his hands up and down his biceps in vain attempt to warm up. "Did you tell her why, or rather how, I came to overdose?" he asked weakly. He'd have to broach the subject with John alone - Mother would be infinitely worse. "She inevitably would overreact, so I assume you didn't."

Mycroft tilted his head back slightly, surveying Sherlock down his hawkish nose as if through new eyes. He didn't need to hear the rest of his brother's statement to ascertain the meaning. Privately he found himself quite shocked; Sherlock had always been aggressive and more than a little antagonistic toward him. He knew his brother had his own insecurities, but he hadn't ever thought that perhaps...He blinked. "No," he confirmed, suddenly sounding ages older than he was. "That I did not say. You're correct; she would most certainly have overreacted. I leave it to you to tell her, or not." _The least I can do_ , he added in his thoughts, though of course said nothing of the sort out loud.

~

John cast his gaze downward in humble thanks.

"Sherlock...he's a puzzle. It's a wonderful thing about him, but I often find myself wondering what he was like before, what made him this way." He lifted his eyes to meet hers. "I'll never see the Sherlock you have known. I'll never know the person he was, probably never meet him. And I know that's how he wants it, but in a way it means I might not fully understand his motivations or how he came to be how he is. You do. And despite everything that's happened between you two, that's a very valuable thing, and something, I think, he may need. So I implore you, don't stop trying just because he might be difficult." He smiled. "I didn't, and look where we are now."

Miriam nodded, eyes glassy once again.

"Excellent point," she said thickly, "he always was a stubborn boy. Even when he was born. Thirteen hours of labor." She rolled her eyes and smiled familiarly. "No, I won't let what little ground we've gained slip. Dinner has been a disaster, but hopefully overall everything will turn out well." She looked over to the open door. "Neither has come back alone yet, so either they're still shouting at each other or perhaps for once they've managed a civil conversation. I think they are both tired of the animosity between them. They were once rather fond of each other."

"Were they?" Strangely, John found himself able to picture it; a young, skinny dark-haired boy poking at his older brother's slight pudge with a stick, demanding a sword fight to the death. He smiled just slightly. "I'd always thought they might have, when they were younger. They couldn't have hated each other all their lives...Christ, I bet they were a pair." John thought of Harry and how they'd started in a similar way; older sister and younger brother constantly bickering but thick as thieves, until she'd turned to drink in her teens and the relationship turned sour for another couple decades.

"Mycroft has always taken his position as the older brother very seriously," she said wistfully. "Even despite all this, he remains watchful in a minimal capacity, just to ensure Sherlock's safety if nothing else. As children, though, they caused quite a bit of trouble." Her eyes gained a distant haze as she recalled them tramping about the gardens or running down the halls together, giggling. Much as she would give to have that back again, she could more than settle for a peaceable Christmas once in a while.

~

"Good." Sherlock finally turned around and forced himself to meet Mycroft's eyes. "Thank you. As long as that remains unmentioned, the rest doesn't matter." He rejoined Mycroft's side and scratched nervously at his curls. "How angry do you think she is?" he asked with a wince. John was probably fine, if somewhat awkwardly with his mother. It was a question of how she was reacting. Given the fact he hadn't come looking for them, John must still be in the dining hall. "You mentioned John is still with Mother. Is there a reason?"

"I assume she wants a moment with him to herself," Mycroft replied, frowning and fixing his tie. It had become slightly rumpled from his enthusiasm of before. "Mummy has always wanted to put her two pence in. Although, it's strange...She seems more earnest in her attempts this time, did you notice?" As he was dabbing at his brow with a handkerchief from his pocket, he glanced over at the broken glass on the floor and made a mental note to request Virgil on it later. "I hardly know what's gotten into her. I daresay it's remorse." He cleared his throat and finished making himself look presentable once again, glancing to Sherlock and offering him the handkerchief. "It didn't seem abundantly so, but if she is angry, I shall do my best to defuse it."

"No," Sherlock replied, waving aside the offered cloth, "it's fine. I've done enough dodging for one night, don't you think?" The brothers simply watched each other for several moments, feeling out the new dynamic between them. Not altogether unpleasant, at least in Sherlock's mind. "But yes, I have noticed. She nearly cried when John and I first met with her. Remorseful definitely seems to be accurate. You had no preemptive knowledge of her perspective? Or at least a private assessment? I assumed you would, given the fact you were the one who told me she wanted me to visit in the first place."

"I well and truly don't know," Mycroft confessed, the words sounding particularly sour on a Holmesian tongue. "She was very...peculiar about how she asked me to contact you. She _implored_ me, but was very detached - by her standards. Restrained. Still very intense, though, so there was some intent there, but she was highly zealous about letting through just what that intent _was_. Naturally, it made me very hesitant." He cleared his throat and managed a grimace at Sherlock. "Seems she knows how clever we are, and didn't want me figuring...this...out. Wanted you to be there for the grand unveiling."

~

John nodded, resting his hand gently over hers for a moment before withdrawing.

"I know you likely already knew this, and I don't want to insult you by reiterating, I just want you to know that I'm not, ahm, trying to take Sherlock away from you. The...antagonistic feelings, they're mostly from him. I mean, I don't even really know you. But, you know, I think that could change. I wouldn't be opposed to a gathering once in a while, assuming everyone's alright with it. This...this might be the start of some good sentiment, yeah?"

"I do understand that, though I appreciate your extra effort in saying so. And I think both of us know you're the greater priority anyway. However that would be the case even if our relationship was fine. Children grow up, move out, start families of their own. Such is the natural order." She nicked Sherlock's abandoned water glass off the table and indulged herself. "I confess it had been my intent from the beginning to corral your renowned common sense in reconciling with my son, and to an extent I still am, but please understand I appreciate you as well. You are not a tool to be used to repair what I can of my relationship - you are a fixture of his life and as such I am interested in knowing you, too. I think that might expedite it, as well. I'm not young anymore, nor am I particularly content to sit on my hands if something can be done," she finished with a sly twist of her mouth. A small smile played across John's lips in return.

"I can talk to him about it. Honestly, I don't think he was so much put off by the idea as nervous. I can't speak for the reasoning behind years' absence, but I think he was just unwilling to relive parts of his childhood by coming back. Which, you know, I understand." His gaze flickered over to the placid wine glass and he suddenly decided to duck forward and take a sip. "Even so, not completely," John continued, more cautiously now, and cast a subtly questioning glance back at the stately woman seated next to him. A slow nod came in response as she set the glass back on the table.

"So he hasn't explained anything to you as of yet, then. Or very little, it seems. That must make this all the more confusing for you - I apologise." She reached forward and began fiddling with the stem on the glass to avoid looking at John. "It certainly would be an unwillingness to return to a place with such a lingering sense of...loneliness for him, but having to spend time with me would certainly 'put him off' as you suggest. When Sherlock doesn't have enough information to fully grasp his situation, he will automatically confront it with varying amounts of hostility. He had no idea what to expect from me save for what he remembered of the last direct contact we had. And, of course, our all-but-complete mutual silence after he left for university. My request was unexpected and succinct - it only makes sense he would be in some measure frightened by it. Not that he would  _ever_  admit to it."

~

"Interesting. Perhaps she thought you would interfere for my sake if you suspected ill intent. Odd," Sherlock said. Mother was being awfully careful, as if it were... "Is she alright?" Sherlock asked suddenly, "She isn't...sick, is she?" He didn't bother trying to hide the alarm on his voice - Mycroft was well aware of what happened in the wake of Father's death, and knew Sherlock wasn't keen on a repeat. "It would explain her haste, but..."

Mycroft's jaw tightened and he grimaced down at his expensive leather shoes.

"She would not say, Sherlock. You know how proud she is. I had thought of that before, but she scoffed at my inquiries as to her well being, though didn't give me a 'yes' or a 'no'. If it  _is_ something serious, I suspect she'd want us both together before revealing so, not wanting any information such as that passed secondhand. However...you know, with father -" He cut off and cleared his throat, beginning again. "On the other hand, it could just be a product of her attempt to race against her ever ripening age."

"You're right, she isn't father. She would want a more personal dissemination, but I think the latter is more likely. She shows no outward token of illness, and it would presumably be rather advanced and imminent if that was her motivation in reaching out," Sherlock replied, hands folded and put to his lips. This was better, more comfortable - cold, distant analysis of motive. Just like being at home and working. That it was his mother was, for the moment, just another piece of data, no sentiment attached to it. "That said, I don't know if the fact it  _isn't_  illness assuages me or not." His eyes briefly lifted to meet his brother's. "I...I don't..." He didn't finish the sentence. 

_I don't know what to think of any of this, good or bad._

Knowing instinctively Mycroft would understand, he let the thought go. "And I know that was your machination in informing me of father's death. John found it nigh-neglectful of you," he said with a cynical smirk, "but I have no issue with it. I certainly expected nothing more." Surely Mycroft understood that implicitly, so why should it bother him? 

~

"Yeah." John considered asking her what had happened in Sherlock's daily life to have made him so lonely, but he didn't really need to in order to be able to guess at it. He knew how cruel children could be - endless taunting of newly-out Harry came to mind - and someone as specifically talented and perceptive as Sherlock would have easily been a blaring target. Living with such an estranged father must mot have helped, and after Mycroft left for university, things must have gotten even worse. As John sat, he reflected quietly; it wasn't just his perseverance despite the adversity he'd faced his whole life. Sherlock always regarded John as the stronger of the two, but it was the detective who'd done something even John himself could never even dream of, who'd made himself dead to the world so that he could save the others. "He's strong, though." He smiled fondly. "I doubt he considers himself so, but I've never met someone who could do all he's done."

"Mycroft came to me the night Sherlock left - I imagine he wanted to beat the news coverage before it got to me. I have little direct contact with the greater world, and anyone who knows Sherlock well enough knows we aren't close, so Mycroft believed it safe enough to spare me. When he told me what he'd done...I couldn't believe it at first, honestly. It's not as though I think my son cruel or uncaring," she said quickly, "but that kind of selflessness is remarkable for _anyone_ , and especially Sherlock." Miriam shook her head and gave a single half-hearted and cynical chuckle. "Strength and stubbornness has kept this house afloat for over a century, and Sherlock has it in spades. But self-sacrifice...he certainly didn't learn that from any of us," she said, and turned to stare John down purposefully. John couldn't help but blink and recoil just a tad, flushing as he did and averting his gaze under the intensity of the focus.

"I..." He chuckled a bit at his own flustered state. "Well, it suits him. He's still getting used to it, of course - has his little moments of, you know, tantrums..." He smirked as his gaze clouded over and images appeared behind his eyes. Another moment and his smile dropped from his face as he spoke up again. "After it all happened, I kept asking myself how someone like him could do something like that. There were a lot of inconsistencies, but that especially didn't add up. I was angry at him for having been so selfish in keeping it to himself, and angry at myself for not noticing that all of it was building for him to...to that. And still, it didn't make sense." He shook his head and took another sip of wine. "And then when he came back, it did. Everything suddenly made sense, and I was horrified at myself for never having considered that he'd been so selfless. I was downright ashamed, actually. He says he constantly underestimates me, but the truth of the matter is I blundered through three years never once having thought about the possibility that he'd done it for us."

"From what I've learned of you, it isn't surprising," Miriam replied with a lilting chuckle. "Humble to a fault. But in all seriousness, you've effectively caught my son up on everything I and the rest of the family should have taught him years ago. It is a shame his father did not live to see it. He was already impressed in how Sherlock had turned his life around - he would have approved of that dedication as well. Sherlock will likely always have those moments, but I'm sure I'm telling you what you already know." Warm fondness flooded her expression. "You believed as you were meant to, for your safety as well as Sherlock's. And my son can be _very_ convincing when he feels the need. No shame in that, John."

"Yeah, I just...I never believed he was a fake, and yet I didn't think to believe he did it for any altruistic reason." He sighed and straightened himself out before getting too emotional, focusing down at the hands in his lap. He let out a sudden, soft laugh and looked up. "Anyway, I can't take all the credit. He's impossibly quick to pick up things, as I'm sure you know. I didn't even know he listened to me half the time. But sometimes he'll just say something out of the blue that's the sweetest thing, and he doesn't even realize it." The condensation on his water glass began to drip and he watched the drop slide down the length of the glass. "All the other moments are worth it just for those."

~

At the mention of his neglect, Mycroft pursed his lips into a thin line and avoided his brother's gaze. He wondered at how to say it - _I'm sorry, I don't understand, we used to be close, I used to take care of you, you used to let me._ He said none of it, of course, and it wouldn't be the first time a Holmes had chosen silence in favour of incriminatingly vulnerable words. Instead, he chose to fix his brother with a gaze he hoped Sherlock could understand and gave a small nod. "I apologize for my lack of presence," he opened carefully, feeling out the strange, new lack of familiar hostility. "Should you desire more from me, I would be open to accommodation."

Sherlock balked involuntarily at the invisible hand being extended to him. Uncommon remorse and sentiment glinting dully in his brother's eyes lit an unexpected, familial warmth in him he never would have recognised if not for his recent experiences with John.

"That...is a gracious offer of you," he answered with equal care, "and I, um, am grateful and extend the same courtesy to you, but you misunderstand what I meant. I was merely referring to not expecting any more from _father_." At the time he'd been rather impressed at Mycroft's show of conscientiousness in the wake of father's death. Neglectful as it may have seemed to John, Sherlock had expected an irritating, demeaning phone call from the man in question alluding to Sherlock's lack of fealty. The distant offering weeks later had been vastly more preferred. Mycroft shut his eyes and hummed in acknowledgment.

"Father never inspired any sort of expectation from anyone. I think, perhaps, he used to from Mummy, but..." He didn't continue, not needing to and most definitely not wanting to reopen the scandal he and his brother knew all too well. "He did not reach out once to me since I left for university, and you and I both know how he was before that." He hesitated, leaning in slightly as his opportunity to inquire about something he'd wanted to know for ages arose. "When I left...how did things fare?"

"What do you mean?" asked Sherlock, eyebrows pulled together in confusion. "You at least got to talk to him, didn't you? Something approaching regular contact?" This was significant news to him; everything between them seemed fine up until Mycroft had left for school - tepid, but all relations between father and son were as such. His brother's question, however, remained. "And it was quiet," Sherlock said, acid lacing his syllables. "Exceedingly quiet. Well, until they found my first hoard. Back before I knew how to hide it most effectively. Up until that point I honestly didn't think I _needed_ to, so little attention was paid me."

"Of course I got to talk to him, but you know Father. He never showed any ounce of interest for his children, and that doesn't exclude his eldest. Of course, in the earlier years, I informed him of what I was doing at work - vaguely, of course. Told him when I received promotions. Wrote to him occasionally from different places I'd visited. As you can imagine, he never wrote back." Mycroft glanced away in guarded humiliation at the revelation that he'd been rejected in forging a futile relationship with their father, but he knew that Sherlock likely understood. The subject of Sherlock's using made him wince slightly, but he nodded. "I remember the call."

~

"Yes, his learning curve...well, both boys' are intimidating, to be honest. Neither I nor my husband ever understood how it came to be, especially in both of them. We are intelligent people, but nothing like them. Little sponges, eating up every last bit of information they could, even as toddlers. It's not surprising he picked up so easily from someone he respects and cares for so much. Mycroft is more...cerebrally intelligent, but Sherlock is more creative. Violin is his first love, but he is magnificent on a number of other instruments as well. He used to draw, too, but I don't know if he does anymore, obviously."

sMiriam sat back in her chair, one leg crossed over the other in a show of familiar ease despite only just having met John. "I didn't even know about the drawing until he left for university and I went through his things. That's...true of many things I learned about my son," she finished in quiet repentance. John looked over at her, suddenly intrigued.

"He did?" he asked, not bothering to hide his initial shock before he recovered. When he spoke again, his voice was gentler. "I know it's not the same," he began, "but I never knew any of that, either. The only reason I know about the violin playing is because he continually plays - sometimes to the point where it keeps me up at night." He smiled. "He never told me he played anything else, though I had suspected as much. He's impossibly adept at reading music. But the drawing...I never knew that, either. Was he good, from what you remember? What did he like to draw?" Not that Sherlock had any reason to tell him about it, but this mostly hidden creative side was impossibly intriguing and inexplicably enticing to John, whose constantly-shifting image of a younger Sherlock in his mind's eye now morphed to accommodate this new information.

"Oh, so he still plays," she said warmly, relief evident in her tone. "I'm sure he's only improved, too. Still composing?" she asked, receiving a knowing nod in return. She flashed a smile and sighed happily. "As for the drawing - a lot of anatomical drawings. The occasional landscape. Life drawing, too, with little scribbles of deductions along the side. Practice, I think. And yes, they were very good, the last ones before he left. Some of them dated back to when he was 12." Perhaps in the morning she could unearth them and somehow surreptitiously get them to John; he was clearly interested.

~

Sherlock turned and eyed Mycroft with naked shock. Everything about his perspective in the last twenty years was, in seconds, rendered utterly meaningless. What he'd told John the other day about seeing his suffering and putting Sherlock's own in perspective gained new meaning. "I..." and he left it at that for a few awkward seconds, "had no idea. I thought..." he let the sentence go and shook his head. What he believed at the time was pointless now. "And I didn't realise you had been contacted so early on in my time of indiscretions," he continued, completely at a loss as to how he should respond to Mycroft's newly-revealed, commiserate perspective. He was rapidly reaching his capacity for such emotional conversation, however much John had increased it.

Mycroft shrugged to appear ambivalent, though the rather forceful shoving of his hands in his pockets revealed his discomfort at the topic at hand.

"The reason they called was to demand I tell them what I know. I had no idea, of course, but for some reason they had got it into their heads that we were still close by then. I imagine it was somewhere near the beginning of the whole affair that this happened." He smiled bitterly up at the ceiling. "It was Father who called, by the way. It was terrifying." His eyes clouded over at the memory of the only time his father ever called him back, but he quickly snapped out of his thoughts. "Right. I imagine John has had quite a high enough dose of Mummy, don't you think?"

Sherlock merely stared at his brother for a long moment, measuring his story. Mycroft chafed under the gaze; Sherlock couldn't remember _ever_ eliciting a response like that while doing this in the past. His brother was clearly done, too. No matter - that this happened at all was a minor miracle, to say the least.

"Yes, probably. I think...we should go back together, lest mother think our conversation ended explosively. Agreeable?" He nicked his jacket off the chair and put it back on. Really, he should have earlier, given how chilled he was, but he had been rather distracted, after all.

~

John tilted his head and imagined a boy tucked up somewhere, studying with those perceptive eyes not to deduce, but to draw. "Wow," was all he could think to say, eliciting a small chuckle from Miriam at his side. He grinned.

"I mean, I had no idea...I was flipping through a poetry anthology once, and he looked entirely disinterested. I just assumed he found the fine arts...overrated, I suppose. Huge misinterpretation on my part. I should have guessed, what with his musical ability but...just another thing I didn't consider, I s'pose."

"He has little patience for poetry and prose - he can usually predict the plot of any given story without effort, Mycroft, too - but introverted endeavours of skill like that must be different to his mind." She could recall many an afternoon seeing him in the gardens in his teens, scratching away at a notebook but never paying much mind to it, like so many other things she'd seen from him. "You should inquire after it. He does so love showing off," she teased. John truly was a remarkable man - she hadn't been this familiar with anyone herself in ages. With him as a bridge, she felt infinitely more confident in her effort to grow closer to her son once again.

~

Mycroft inclined his head in a tiny, nonthreatening nod, and straightened to his usual indifferent, powerful stance. He turned and opened the door for his brother, following out after. They walked in mutual silence, but even the silence had shifted between them to take on a cautiously familiar air. What had happened in that room had been an inexplicable and unheard of interaction, and as far as the Holmeses went, it was borderline bonding. He was sure he couldn't tell their mother what they'd talked about even if he wanted to, but he had the suspicion she'd have the social grace not to ask.

As they approached the dining hall once again, Sherlock halted his brother a moment. Compulsion pulled too strongly at him to remain silent any longer, despite their mutual discomfort at being so open.

"Mycroft, what you said about father, I..." His brother cut him off with a knowing glance down his nose - _Don't be obtuse. I know._ Sherlock chewed the inside of his cheek and nodded instead of finishing the thought. Laughter from the hall made them both turn in surprise. They shared a look and took off again more hastily than before, eager to understand just what was going on since they had left.

~

A soft laugh escaped John and his eyes crinkled as he sat back and considered the idea. "I should, yeah. I just don't know if he wanted to keep it from me or what, but you're right. He most definitely does enjoy showing off." He shook his head fondly and grabbed his wine glass. He was mid-sip when the dining room doors reopened and both of them turned in their seats to see the brothers step back in together.

John looked at Sherlock; Sherlock looked at Miriam; Miriam looked at Mycroft; Mycroft looked at the ceiling. The elder Holmes brother cleared his throat.

"I do believe we've been rude in running off before dinner," he opened, finally lowering his gaze to the two seated individuals and attempting to calculate what exactly they'd chatted about. He could practically feel Sherlock doing the same beside him. John's gaze flitted curiously between Sherlock and his brother, trying to do the same thing but hopelessly underequipped to do so.

 

"That we have. Apologies. Have you...been getting on well?" Sherlock asked tentatively, eyeing John critically. Both his and his mother's postures were at ease, almost...familiar? How could that be? He expected naught but awkwardness and askance glances, but instead found laughter and what sounded suspiciously like teasing. John gave him a warm, reassuring smile, inquiringly silently. Sherlock nodded once in return, his latent confusion and odd discomfort from his previous conversation written on his face in distraction.

Miriam's gaze bounced between her sons. They'd come back together - something they would have done regardless to mask the situation, but both of them were rather obviously set akilter. There was no anger, however; far from it. They were, seemingly, quite peaceable.

"Just fine I think, yes, John?" she replied, looking at her son-in-law fondly. He didn't turn immediately, caught up as he was in assessing and appreciating his partner's return. _Eyes only for him_ , she thought, wistfulness softening her expression further.

Feeling immensely more relaxed after the nod of reassurance, John released the slight tension he hadn't realized had gathered in his shoulders and sat back a bit in his seat, turning his head to smile easily at Miriam.

"Yeah, we've been doing alright," he replied, a touch of cautious cheer in his voice, and he turned back to look at Sherlock with the fresh gaze of someone more well-informed. Even if it was just a bit.  
  
"I suppose a rearrangement is in order," Mycroft cut in with a mildly pleasant air, noting his mother's change of seats. He took a step forward and flicked his gaze to the unopened courses in silver coverings lining the table. On another moment's thought, he stepped forward to humbly whisk them off in a peaceable offering to start their meal without any more dramatic disturbances.

 

John's increased familiarity in his gaze gave Sherlock pause. Still, this was not the time to ponder it. His partner would likely be perfectly willing, if not tripping all over himself, to discuss whatever he'd learned. And there was still father's story to consider along with everything else...this was far more than he'd bargained on. He wasn't hungry in the least, but nonetheless approached the table to stand behind John's chair. He put a hand to the back of it, just above a shoulder.

"Mycroft, my dear," Miriam said, "it's long since gone cold, and I think I've imposed upon you all far more than is polite." She stood and stepped to Sherlock's side, putting a gentle hand to his upper arm. Despite his still-lackluster appetite, he wasn't frighteningly thin as he had been in the past. More positivity of John's influence, she was sure. They shared a brief moment just regarding one another. "If any of you are, in fact, hungry, I can have something sent up to you. But there is no need to keep you here any longer after a... _trying_ afternoon such as this."

"Are you certain?" Sherlock asked. His eyes belied the sincerity of his question. Miriam nodded and offer a small smile.

"I am. And...I'm sorry, Sherlock, for speaking out of turn."

For a moment he though John would have to pick his jaw up off the floor, for how agape with shock he was. Involuntarily he looked to Mycroft, who was equally if more outwardly reserved with his surprise.

"I-it...it's fine, mother. I regret that it is a topic to be brought up at all." His tone was even, diplomatic, but she clearly understood the emphasis it was supposed to have given her glassy eyes in response.

"If you have any need, please ask for myself or Virgil. Goodnight, all of you." Miriam pulled away from her younger son and strode around the table to harness the older one by the arm on the way out the door. She cast once last, thankful glance over her shoulder at John before shutting the door behind her, leaving John and Sherlock to themselves.

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends!
> 
> As I explained last time, this chapter contains TRIGGER WARNINGS for the following:
> 
> -Mention of drug use/institutionalization for rehab  
> -Mention of suicide
> 
> just so everybody's aware~
> 
> Enjoy!

John and Sherlock stared at the door for a few moments after they had left, merely processing. When at last Sherlock stepped aside and looked down at his partner in a sort of wordless, awkward apology, John shook his head and sprang up, trapping Sherlock in a brief but tight hug.

"Right," John said, clearing his throat after he pulled away, unable to keep a relieved, crooked smile from his lips. "That was...Are you okay?"

Slowly, Sherlock nodded.

"Yes." Confusion still soaked his tone, but he was glad to be left to themselves for the night. It didn't seem that bad during the act, but now that it was catching up and sinking in, he could feel himself tipping towards overload. "Guest room," he coughed, "Upstairs. Let's go." Before they left, however, he pulled John back in for another embrace, longer this time. He slipped his hand onto John's as they departed. A thought clawed its way to the top. " _Are_ you hungry?"

Feeling much like a contented cat now that the warm weight of Sherlock's hand was rightfully laced in his own, John opened his mouth to reply. It was then that a sudden thought struck him, and he had the oddest inclination to make a crack about only needing to imbibe certain fluids from certain detectives, but he shook the thought away with a chuckle and decided on a simple "No." With that, he tugged on Sherlock's hand and they stepped out into the hall.

"Lead the way," he offered, because he well and truly had no idea where he was going.

Sherlock saw the mischievous glint on John's eye and allowed himself a tiny smirk of acknowledgment.

"Here." They returned to the main hall and mounted the stairs. A turn to the right revealed a long hallway with doors spaced evenly apart. One was cracked about halfway down; he headed for it. As expected, their bag lay on a large, pillowed mattress in one of the larger guest rooms. Once inside, he shut the door behind them and sat on the edge of the bed. "So." He looked up at John, feeling inexplicably tired.

John tilted his head and gazed at his partner in mild concern for his exhaustion, stepping forward to join both their hands.

"So," he replied evenly, swinging them a bit between them. Sherlock looked positively beaten; John couldn't begin to imagine the toll this visit to his family had taken on him, especially the heavy topics that must've been discussed between him and Mycroft. An idea flitted across his mind and he let go of Sherlock's hands to climb onto the bed and settle on his knees behind him. Practiced hands and a working knowledge of human anatomy had aided John well in giving massages throughout the years, and now was no different. He kneaded the knotted musculature spreading out from the base of the man's neck, pushing his thumbs into particular spots and paying attention to bodily responses. Sherlock gave a unreserved groan of happiness at the unexpected hands. John spoke in a soothing voice as he worked:

"I think, all things considering, tonight went better than perhaps expected. I mean, I got to know your mum pretty well. And the wine was spectacular."

"I agree, more, perhaps, than you realise. So your conversation with mother was...positive?" Sherlock asked tentatively. They almost certainly covered the topic he and Mycroft stormed out over, but given his rather chipper mood that couldn't have been the only thing. Best to start there and work their way down. It was a growing relief that, at least, John and mother apparently were amicable with each other. Little victories. With a suggestive nudge, he cued John to move back so Sherlock could spread out on the bed face down. John smirked to himself when Sherlock spread out, but said nothing and straddled his arse in order to have more direct access. He began again, working a wider field, now, to smooth out Sherlock's spine and rub over shoulder blades.

"Yeah, it was. At first it was a little hesitant, I think, on both our parts, but she eventually warmed up to me. Or, rather, I warmed up to her. She's actually a very kind woman. And I learned a few things about you I didn't know before. Do you still draw?"

Sherlock tensed anew at the question.

"How...how do you know about that? How does _she_...oh." he cut himself off,  realising. "Well, I hope she got the point in where I put all those. To answer your question, however: for a long time, no. I picked it up again...when I...left. Violin tends to attract the attention of people who are hunting for you, or when you're trying to pass as an uncultured thug. And I needed something to occupy my time and thoughts." A chill ran down his back as he remembered. "To answer your unspoken follow-up question," he said, some of his characteristic sarcasm rising in his tone as a posthaste self-defence, "yes, I drew you. A lot." It felt infinitesimally better to admit the sentiment himself, but only just. His embarrassment cleared a bit as John worked at a knot, the spike of pain and release of muscle providing a good distraction. "Lord, you're good at this."

Instead of replying, John leaned down and placed a kiss square in the middle of Sherlock's angular shoulder blades. He picked right back up, driving the heel of his palm hard into a kink in the other man's flank just under the shoulder. When it gave and softened out, he ran his fingers over the smooth alabaster skin in a sort of gentle apology. He began working down, expanding from the neck and shoulder region and moving along Sherlock's spine to his lower back muscles before trailing back up again. Many thoughts raced through his brain, but none made it past his lips.

_A lot? How many drawings of me are there? Do you still have them? Where you put your old ones - does that mean they're still out there? Why did you stop?_

He knew Sherlock was likely uncomfortable continuing this line of discussion, given his lack of mention at all beforehand and hesitance in the current conversation, so John stowed all further inquiries away for later investigation.

"To hear that makes me feel extraordinarily loved. And comforted, to know you missed me as much as I missed you."

Sherlock could all but feel John's further clarifying questions radiating off him. When he heard John merely speak on his sentiment instead, he turned over slowly to look up at him. This was the night he'd promised himself he'd tell John everything. Granted, at the time it had only been one story; tonight had expanded that considerably. But the promise remained nonetheless. He sat up and pulled John in for a reassuring kiss.

"I originally stopped simply because I was busy at school. After that, of course, I fell into heavy drug use, which...as you now know," he said in a strangled voice, "I was only just recovering from when we met. I didn't save any from my time abroad. Didn't have the space to store something like that. I still am, however, sporadically. Just...not when you're around. I picked up the skill because I...just wanted something new to do. My options were limited to anything one can do alone, and it provided a unique challenge. It's much more difficult to learn to draw...and to start again after a long break...than you'd imagine."

John sat stock still as Sherlock explained, as if his words were some sort of animal John would scare away if he moved too fast. When he at last stopped, having revealed a new part of himself and completely vulnerable, John all but fell over himself to kiss the other man in gratitude. Sherlock gave a muffle sound of surprise when John jumped him, but eased into the kiss quickly enough. When John pulled back, he found himself still deeply desiring contact, so he lifted his hands up to cup Sherlock's face.

"But...music. You still play, still compose. Helps you to think. I know you couldn't do it while you were away, but did you leave that, too, when you were at school and...everything else happened? Why did you pick it back up?"

Though John was still close at hand and staring him down, Sherlock avoided his eyes.

"I _made_ time for violin. Drawing is a perfectly sound intellectual exercise, but music is...I suppose I would describe it as important to me in a way art isn't. I continued playing well into my addiction. Certainly, I didn't play _well_ according to the sober ear; cocaine doesn't allow enough patience for anything but sawing nonsensically on it, but when I _stopped_ , that was actually a herald of how far gone I was. Heroin...is different - well, you know that, you're a doctor," he said in a rush, scratching at his curls nervously. "I started again in rehab, once I was trusted enough to have it. I begged for it, really. If I couldn't get high, I had to play instead if I wanted to stay sane. I think you already realise that it is my primary emotional outlet, right?"

John felt a rush of cold chill his blood and his eyes widened fractionally.

"You used heroin?" he managed at a half-whisper, and suddenly Sherlock couldn't have been too close. Not as quickly as before so as not to make him overly uncomfortable, John dropped his hands from the other man's face and slid them down to rest at his hips. "I...I thought it was just cocaine – your mother only mentioned it in passing, and to be honest I didn't believe it...stupid, _stupid_ , really. I s'pose it was just wishful thinking, but heroin?" His brain unhelpfully supplied all sorts of information about the drug, information which scared the living daylights out of him to think Sherlock might have fallen victim to such a damaging and highly addictive vice. He pushed down his anxiety and surreptitiously glanced down at Sherlock's covered forearms. "Did you do it when you were gone, or just when you were younger?"

Sherlock winced heavily at John's visceral response. Not unexpected, but still a little upsetting.

"No, not while I was gone. Heroin, being a depressant, isn't conducive to situations that may or may not require immediate flight from a country. Cocaine _is,_ however. As well, I...don't like what it does to me now that I'm sober and  realise how far I can fall when on it. And John," he said carefully, "I thought you might have picked up on this implicitly, but...I've tried just about everything you can think of. Except methamphetamine. That was always my line not to be crossed. Don't...berate yourself for your lack of knowledge. That has always been by my design." Noting John's sidelong stare at his arms, he involuntarily ran his hands up them. "I only began indulging in heroin in the last year or so before I went to rehab. Up until then, I had something of a functional grasp on my addiction. Yes, _I know_ , it doesn't really work like that," he said patronisingly at John's critical eyebrow, "but in the relative sense. After that, however..." he said nothing more and took one of John's hands in his own, playing with it aimlessly.

John pressed his lips together in a thin line and watched Sherlock's milky fingers slide across his own slightly tanned ones. Very slowly, he began to nod. Almost of its own accord, his other hand slid up Sherlock's torso and he watched it. Fingers skimmed along his sternum and over a pectoral before a palm settled in the middle of his chest. John waited, patiently still, as the gentle beat against the palm confirmed that the being in front of him was alive. His serene face cracked, one rift forming between his eyebrows and deepening as he considered the very real possibility that he might never have been able to feel that warm beat against his skin had this magnificent person in front of him taken just a couple more hits, indulged with just slightly more frequency, tried just a little different combination. He shivered and his fingers curled against Sherlock's chest as if they could wind around that heart and protect it. Words bubbled up from his consciousness, but what he'd started to say turned into "I know."

Sherlock picked up the hand at his chest and put it to his lips.

"I assume mother told you how I came to be in rehab." John gave a short nod of acknowledgment. There was no way to avoid upsetting John further, so the truth would just have to do. "Lestrade was looking for me for a case. He'd sworn me off because I had become so incredibly belligerent and impossible, but he had a particularly vicious serial strangler on his hands and was out of options. He must have very good informants in his pocket, because I had gone out of my way to hole up away from prying eyes. When he did, I was already..." John shivered; Sherlock pulled him into an embrace, hand cradling the back of his head. "I was admitted to the hospital, and Lestrade called Mycroft. They're quite the little team, despite whatever Lestrade insists. When I came to, he was standing at the edge of my bed, staring at me. I expected him to be apoplectic, but I hadn't realised he already knew why. Stupid of me, really; Mycroft's deduction skill is greater even than mine."

He went quiet for a bit after that, gathering his wherewithal and let John have a moment.

"I wouldn't...call it a suicide attempt," he began calmly, "as that wasn't really my intent. But I knew it was too high a dose and didn't care. Only time in my life I left something entirely up to fate." He took up a slight rocking rhythm in holding John and waited for a response.

There was that word again. Fate. John buried his face in the groove between Sherlock's shoulder and neck, inhaling. He smelled as John expected him to smell: darkly fragrant and musky and irrefutably human. It comforted him. He mouthed at the spot and it tasted just like Sherlock, too. He had almost lost himself in the sensory overload of his partner when something clicked inside his head and he suddenly pulled back just enough to look Sherlock in the eye.

"It's interesting, how you said that. Fate. You left it up to _fate._ Your mum said that earlier, too, about us. That it was a matter of fate intervening that you met me when you did. If that's true, then the shot that sent me home from Afghanistan when it did was fate, too. And you and Carl Powers and the shoes, with Moriarty, when you were a kid. Now, I don't know what I believe - when things've happened to you like they've happened to me, you learn not to question whether or not some things were meant to happen or you risk the danger of going mad. But...I do know one thing. If I could go back and never have met Mary, never gotten wounded in action, never have even joined the army in the first place to get away from my home life....I wouldn't do it. Not even for a second."

Sherlock let his head fall back and considered John's words. By that reasoning, Sherlock's addiction was part of the equation, too. Going to rehab had ended in unpleasantries with the landlord, forcing him to abandon his previous address and inquire after a flatmate for a new one. A romantic notion, but...

"In all honesty, John, I don't much care as to the how and why. But your admittance you would suffer all over again just to ensure you would be here with me...I'm sorry I never told you," he continued, "but no one would have ever agreed to live with me if I'd been honest. Lestrade's so-called drugs bust almost ruined everything, but at least he realised to keep his mouth shut appropriately." Lanky fingers smoothed reverently across John's face. He leant in and only just brushed his mouth with John's, merely an appreciation of the closeness than an attempt at a kiss. "And I thank you for not leaving right then and there," he murmured, the languid movement of his lips just brushing the patch of skin just next to the other man's mouth. His hands drifted down and disappeared into John's jacket to take hold of his waist just by the fingertips, thumbs drawing light circles along the edge of jutting hipbone. Despite the seriousness of the situation, John huffed out a breathless half-chuckle, a puff of warm air against the side of Sherlock's mouth. He closed his eyes to revel in their closeness.

"How could I? I was already bloody infatuated with you." He smugly smiled against his will, then let the expression fade again. "And I'm not angry about you not telling me at first. I understand that. I was a little hurt, before," he admitted, "when you didn't tell me that night in bed, but you needed time. I of all people should have known how important that was." To accent his point, John tipped forward those extra millimeters and pressed their lips together not really in a kiss, but just for grounding contact.

He tried, really, he did, but before long Sherlock could no longer resist the compulsion to finalise the kiss. To begin, he merely pulled at John's thin lower lip, using it as a springboard for his tongue to invite itself in. Warmth enveloped him beyond his mere mouth, fueled by gratitude all the way to his very core. It tripped some unknown switch in his head, possessing him with a sudden, frenetic energy. Hands encircled John's waist entirely as they kissed; he pulled them both back onto the mattress and rolled so he was atop the other man. Pinned as John was now, Sherlock only increased his intensity in the kisses, nearing desperation as his last bits of inhibition cracked and fell away. He fell on the other man in heavy waves, stealing the last of each other's breath as he all but tried to engulf the other man's face and pausing only just long enough for enough requisite oxygen to continue. John was too good, too accommodating, too...everything. So much more than anyone like the detective ever deserved.

For the third time that night, John shivered. This time, however, it was not out of a solemn sense of narrow escape from a force unknown. He could hardly open his mouth fast enough or wide enough to satisfy Sherlock's hunger, and when the other man pulled away for air he sucked in as large a breath as he could before Sherlock ducked back down. John made no objection to being pinned and ravished; in fact, it only triggered the release of tension that had been building up the entire day - entire few days, actually. He squirmed underneath the weight holding him down, suddenly lunging up into the kiss with a ferocity that equaled his partner's.

John's overwhelmingly positive response was everything Sherlock wanted to hear. Not that he ever doubted he would be denied, but it always was a pleasant surprise to receive such enthusiasm. His body took on an almost cat-like arch as he adjusted enough to keep his pace with John as well as begin grinding into him with near-animalistic ferocity; together they bobbed on the airy mattress from the force of it. A hand tore at John's neatly-tucked shirt and wedged under it, clawing for its first taste of naked skin hidden under so many layers of alluring clothing. Nice as that four thousand quid's worth was, Sherlock had tired of its impedance. Tact and usual reserve exhausted by the events of the day, he relinquished all pretence and let himself do and say as impulse wished.

"Nice suit," he growled with a toothy grin,"now get it the fuck off." He reached down and latched onto the side of his lover's neck with unrepentant teeth.

It all happened so fast that the surprised and unrestrained moan was wrung out of John before he had a chance to check himself. Not that he would have, really, because Sherlock's animality was almost painfully arousing. If things were going to happen like this, though, John wasn't just going to allow himself to be the helpless prey while the other ravaged him.

"Sorry," he panted, "got my hands full. You're gonna have to help with that." He stretched his neck in offering but his hands set right to work; one thrust down the back of Sherlock's trousers to grab a clawful of soft, smooth arse while the other snatched one of Sherlock's own, guiding two long fingers into his mouth. He sucked greedily, mercilessly, trailing his tongue along them in a path he knew the brilliant man on top of him would be tracking in his head.

Shuddering wracked his spine as impossibly soft, delicate flesh danced at the sensitive pads of his fingertips. He turned his attention for a moment to just waggling them a bit against the pressure and suction, moaning into the thick muscle of John's neck. His free hand wrenched at the other man's trousers, just managing to tug them down enough so when he tugged his hand from John's mouth, Sherlock could immediately put the slathered fingers just under his balls, push into the perineum and draw back forward slowly.

"I was offering you a moment of courtesy - I thought you wouldn't want to come in those lovely new trousers of yours, but I don't give damn. Too late now; I'll fuck you into the mattress, suit and all." The hand at his arse tightened, making him hiss in pleasure. With a heavy tug, he pulled pants and trousers somewhat back into place and dropped down to mouth at it with a slavering tongue to tease. From his position he rutted into the sheets, keening all the while, to relieve himself as well as just piss John off for not letting him do it.

An open-mouthed choking sound fought its way up from the back of John's throat and he shivered violently as he felt slick fingers against the sensitive skin beneath his balls. But as soon as he had gotten used to it, it was gone and so was Sherlock. He made to grunt in protest but it turned to a yelp when he felt hot, wet silk mouthing at him through his trousers. Sherlock was doing this on purpose; John knew this, but his body was so surged with adrenaline and his pupils were so enlarged that he didn't much care if he was letting Sherlock goad him into a trap. Fueled with increasing frustration at the lack of skin to claw at, John resorted to fisting the sheets and opened clothed legs bent at the knees, laying them flat against the bed.

"So do it, then," he hissed, the challenge in his voice providing a nice cover for his rising desperation. "Fuck me in this suit."

Permission granted, Sherlock soared back up to straddle John properly again, thrusting once he slotted their hips appropriately. He remained upright as he did, calling John's name to get his attention. They locked eyes and Sherlock went about stripping his shirt, button by button. Once that was done, he wriggled John's pants down and spread the zip on his trousers enough so his dick was free and flattened against him. He was the very image of prostration: arms out and hands splayed near the sides of his head; shirt rustled, wrinkled and going a bit damp at the hem from his cock; jacket spread open against the sheets. Downright fucking _delectable_. And despite such a scene, John's eyes were wild and sharp, daring Sherlock to comment on the seeming submission. With a predator's grace, he slithered down to an ear to address John.

"Be glad you didn't pack the lube, but regardless, that suit isn't the only thing I'm ruining tonight." Sherlock couldn't undo his own trousers fast enough after that, hands shaking as he did. The second he freed himself he spread back across the other man, taking them both in an almost-too-tight fist and began pounding recklessly into him from at hips.

If John thought he'd been breathless before, he was practically drowning in the sensations now. Cock-on-cock contact was different from penetration; in a way, it was just as intimate, and far more intense than simple stimulation by hand or mouth. What Sherlock was doing to him now was borderline overwhelming - the most John could do to have any control over the situation was wriggle beneath him, but every time he did so Sherlock's hips pinned him to the mattress with even more force. That dominance, of course, in turn, made John leak even more and he was sure his fluids alone rid them of any worry that they'd ever start to chafe. He couldn't quite decide what to do with his hands; sometimes they wanted to fling themselves over his head in a total show of submission, but more often than not they liked to scrape their nails down Sherlock's back underneath the bunched material in adoring, stinging patterns. His mouth was hanging lasciviously open, easily allowing whorish sounds to pour out of him without restraint, and occasionally his tongue made a teasing appearance, dancing at the corners of his mouth and along his thin upper lip. The cutting lines at his bare back made Sherlock buck all the harder.

"Nothing better on this earth than you spread wide and dripping for me," he seethed. His free hand holding him up by the elbow  flailed and caught John's as it fell back over his head again in a crushing grip. "Giving every inch of yourself just so I'll touch you, tear you apart the way only I can. Opening yourself to my every want because I leave you soaked and stretched and voiceless just the way you love it. _Need it_ ," he said, his voice little more than a curling hiss amongst heaving breaths. John strained underneath his fingers, his pulse dizzy at the vein pressing into his skin. "You'll come when I say, won't you, love? That voice you so adore, filling your head and wanting to be pleased. This one," he growled, "that goes straight to your dick and makes it reach for me inexorably." His pace had become almost hummingbird like - short, fast, and unceasing. "Now, love. God, John, _now_ ," he cried, shoving forward one last time and shooting hard enough it nearly hurt, teeth grit so hard he, remotely, thought they might crack.

John wished he could have replied to Sherlock's delicious and outright voice porn, but the truth was he was much too high on stimulation and pheromones to manage anything more than a continuous, plaintive cry. He didn't think the other much minded, anyway, going from the force of his orgasm which beautifully spread over the front of John's impossibly expensive light blue dress shirt. He didn't need to be told twice; the combined effect of Sherlock's wrecked voice and the added slickness sent John tumbling over the edge after him, arching his body up so that his hips actually lifted Sherlock's up with them. His thighs clenched so severely that his hip joints burned from the strain. He would have cried out Sherlock's name, but it was about one syllable too long and anyway much too hard to pronounce, so John came with a violent sob and his hips stuttered in the air before crashing back down against the mattress. Through glazed over eyes, John gazed down at their mingled climaxes spread across his front and had the sudden urge to reach down and smear it more into the material, but Sherlock's tightly laced hand was still holding him down, and really, he was quite fine with that.

Sherlock's limbs trembled under him and soon enough gave out completely. He crashed down and melted into John's chest.

"Even I...worried myself a bit...with that ego trip," he gasped, the sound stuttering from a bout of laughter. Noting a touch of semen on the hand that held them, he just managed to nip it off with the tip of his tongue and roll into a sloppy kiss with his partner. A last, clumsy moment of utter lasciviousness between them. "I love you," he mumbled when they parted, "just so you know in case I objectified you a bit _too_ much just now." He chuckled again and rolled to the side so he could gather John up so they were face to face properly, twining their legs and arms despite their staggered state of undress. "My love," he cooed against his cheek, punchdrunk with sex and sentiment and burgeoning relief. "If only it were socially acceptable to take you out in public, wasted and wrung by me for all the world to see. You're radiant when you're like this," he continued, slathering John with compliments and adoration.

John felt utterly boneless, just barely latching onto some semblance of awareness enough to kiss back and allow himself to be turned and intertwined in the other. He blinked and stared at Sherlock through hooded eyes, allowing the other man's words to wash over him. At length, he began to giggle, utterly drunk on the afterglow of such a high. Just a soft giggle, and then he moved on his own for the first time since orgasm to shake his head against the pillow.

"You are something else." After a moment's gaze with a gleam in his eye, John leaned in conspiratorially. "That...was filthy," he whispered in a low, sensual tone, then pressed the tiniest of kisses to the tip of Sherlock's nose and chuckled again. "Look at us. I'm covered in come and you're calling me radiant." Nuzzling just underneath the other's jaw, he added, "I love you, too. Love your sentiment _and_ your savagery."

"I am nothing if not a unique mix of both, hm?" Sherlock asked with a grin. "And yes," he said between fluttered kisses to John's face, "you are radiant, come or no." He reached up and began unbuttoning John's ruined shirt for him, and slipping both it and the jacket off once loose. Bouncing against the mattress as he laid back down again, he spread his palms across newly-naked skin still warm from the clothing. One tightened around a muscled forearm, testing and appreciating its shape. "I guess we both needed that." His eyebrows drew together as he came to a realisation, recalling where he was and what he was doing. "Shit," he said suddenly, reverting in an instant to a worried teen afraid he was in trouble, "I...just...fucked someone in my mother's house." He caught John's highly amused glance and began to grin himself, however embarrassed he was.

Fascinated with catching a glimpse of a younger, more impressionable Sherlock, John propped his head up in a hand, leaning on his elbow and grinning lazily over at him.

"Yes, you did. Quite vigorously, might I add." He reached his free hand up to trail a thumb over Sherlock's sharp cheekbone. "Ah, well. First time for everything." His eyes traveled to a small indentation by the corner of the man's grinning mouth - Sherlock had a dimple, just there, just on his left side. John trailed over to it and dipped the pad of his forefinger gently in the groove. The cold air brushing his sweat-cooled skin, he shifted just a tad closer to the other's warmth and tangled their legs together even more. "We did both need that," he murmured, continuing the previous line of conversation and dropped his head from his hand to rest once more against the pillow. When John spoke again, he knew Sherlock understood implicitly that he wasn't just talking about the sex. "Thank you, love. Really."

Sherlock sobered and nodded.

"I'm just glad I didn't upset you as much as I thought I would. That is ostensibly the worst of it. But not all. How much did mother tell you of my childhood?" he asked, honestly curious to know how she saw it now, as opposed to the past. Mycroft appeared to be correct in his assumption of her remorse, but the question was why and how. "What specifically, and...her demeanour in doing so, if you don't mind my asking." They'd huddled together in mutual search for warmth, but with Sherlock's own body mass lacking, he gestured they settle into bed. While waiting for John's response, he began stripping down to trousers and pulling aside the bedding.

John himself shucked off his slacks and slipped beneath the covers in his pants while he thought back to his conversation with Miriam.

"Well, obviously she told me about your drawing...and she also mentioned you played quite a few instruments." He smiled at their shared quip about Sherlock's tendency to show off. "Said you and Mycroft used to be close when you were kids. Apparently you were quite the troublesome duo. Didn't say anything about your father, and I didn't ask. She...mentioned your loneliness growing up." Having expended what he thought was all pertinent information, John moved onto analysis of demeanor. "She was repentant. Wistful, too, when recalling certain memories. I...I actually spoke with her a little about her lack of...presence, if you will. Evidently pride is a general Holmesian obstacle, but I could have guessed that. Sherlock, she seems to honestly want to be a part of your life. I don't think that _makes up_ for the times she wasn't, but she seemed very sincerely earnest about taking whatever little opportunity you're willing to give her."

"Father's death has, apparently, affected us all," Sherlock replied, thinking back to his conversation with Mycroft, "insofar as readjusting our priorities." He stared up at the ceiling, but felt a hand slide onto his chest. Now that he was here, the moment wasn't nearly so frightening anymore; the last few bits of childish reticence brushed aside by John's reassuring presence and the overall positive outcome of the day. "When I was eight," he began quietly, "my family was hosting a dinner party. Typical aristocratic social gathering. My parents had been talking up some minor duke, his wife, and a few others. I was introduced, and out of omnipresent curiosity, I asked the duke's wife why on Earth she had been so terribly familiar with my father when she'd arrived earlier. She'd arrived before her husband, who had been caught up in last-minute work. My father had met her in the entrance hall whilst mother was dashing about with other guests. I said something to the effect of 'you stood close to him and held his arm like mother does, and you're looking at each other all the time'. Needless to say no one was very happy with my analysis, especially the duke." Half the story behind him, he felt a chill begin to settle in his core. It was incredibly strange to relate it to someone else after so long - his discomfort ethereal, trapped between the reality of the content and its distance in time. Real and yet unreal - and what was real seemed so petty to his adult mind, now. How could he have ever been so upset by the aftermath, the grown part of him demanded, flustered by his own apparent weakness. But, he reminded himself, that adult mentality was built upon the foundation of that experience. The confused little boy who had spoken out of turn and, in doing so, ostracised himself.

Not wanting to jump to conclusions and cut Sherlock off from finishing his own story, John remained silent. The hand on Sherlock's chest, however, remained firmly pressed against it, as if daring him to remove it but knew he wouldn't. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the scene: the posh house guests, the extravagant dishes, the little boy who'd unknowingly uncovered a scandal. It all seemed very much something the Holmeses would host, and subsequently also very much seemed like something Sherlock would do. But perhaps not out of blatant disregard for tact, then, but childish underdevelopment. Vaguely he tried to place Miriam at the scene, her face and reaction to Sherlock's words, and found himself wondering exactly how she did react.

"Scandal is common amongst such people, especially affairs. The act itself isn't what sinks you. It's the _talk_. Snippy women with too much money and too little to do, cloistering together and yapping at each other. About each other. If one crack shows in your facade, it is torn at relentlessly. Bad enough father chose a woman of admittedly minimal higher status than him, but it started a firestorm of gossip. And it propagates and mutates far beyond the original sin. I understand it went around for a while than I was not, in fact, my mother's son, but an illegitimate child from my father's dalliances foisted upon her. Just an example of what happens. Father lost business opportunities because of unsubstantiated  rumour. My parents had to go into full damage control mode to keep the Holmes name in good order. And on top of that, of course, was the fight behind closed doors at home. Father stopped talking to me, _looking_ at me if he could help it, completely. Mother, I think, looking back now, didn't know what to do, and was too upset to deal with me." He bit the inside of his cheek and took a moment. "Some time after all this happened, I stumbled upon mother and Mycroft talking. She was trying to explain to him what was going on between her and father. He imploded on her, told her he knew all along and had just kept his mouth shut. Then he proceeded to go on a bitter diatribe about me and my inability to keep silent either. He'd known all along, and knew _I_ knew, and didn't say anything. He blamed me for everything falling apart."

It was all very strange, this kind of life, to someone like John. This world of high society that indulged in parties and gossip and scandal as if it were a normal way to go about one's life. It was no doubt normal to _them_. He attempted to understand, and when he found that he could not, lapsed unhappily into respectful, sympathetic silence. A streak of protectiveness flared up in anger at Mycroft for pointing such blame at his own brother, because wasn't family supposed to stick together at times like that? Just another thing he didn't understand. At length, John took Sherlock's hand and pressed the back of it to his lips to feel the soft, warm skin.

"Did...anyone...ever forgive you? If that's even the right way of phrasing it?"

Sherlock allowed a short silence to speak for him.

"I certainly didn't help. My parents found my first stash when I was 16 - just Adderall, calm down," he added preemptively, "Dolled out like candy at a high-stakes preparatory school such as mine. However it caused quite the ruckus at home. Finger-shaking, threats, mother cried a little, and I made appropriate placation. Three months later, I returned to experimenting with dosages and that was the last time I was completely sober for...hm...almost twelve years? Once at university, I never visited. Mycroft drug me home for _one_ Christmas when I was twenty-one. Shot up in the bathroom just to piss father off and laughed when I was kicked out of the house. Father tried to revoke my trust fund, but it was, as I have told you before, iron-clad. My  banishment was, essentially, complete after that. Everything was signed over to Mycroft when I was in rehab and agreed to it. Requires my permission."

His mouth twisted, but otherwise that was the only outward reaction John gave to the information. He suddenly wondered, if he had stayed home and worked through his residency in a city hospital instead of getting out of the country as quickly as possible, whether or not he would have come across Sherlock in the ER, perhaps during an infamous graveyard shift. He probably would've seen enough overdose cases pass through on gurneys to last him a lifetime. The thought rattled him and instinctively he tightened his hold on Sherlock's hand. When he finally realized Sherlock had stopped talking both to give them a moment and wait for John's response, he frowned and blinked twice.

"But why did he want your fund cut off? It's not as though you could use it...oh. Spite, then."

"If you're referring to father, perhaps. He certainly considered my behaviour \- the drugs - as a betrayal to the family. And I _was_ using that money for my habit. For Mycroft, however, it was pure strategy. He suggested, and I allowed it. I _wanted_ to recover, after some time in rehab and I came to my senses. The low I hit on heroin frightened no one more than myself. And I suppose I can't blame Mycroft for telling mother, coerced or no. It's the visiting I couldn't believe. I don't remember that at all." He didn't remember the visit, but he very acutely remembered how he felt, and the image of what he conjured in his mind that his mother would have seen was utterly pathetic. He ran his free hand through his curls. "I just wanted to work again. Lestrade, much less Mycroft wouldn't let me unless I was clean. So perhaps I wanted to be sober for the wrong reasons, but nonetheless."

John's mouth gave a small twitch at the corner and he allowed his eyes to slide half-closed.

"No wrong reason to want to be sober," he murmured quietly. His memory flicked to Harry struggling to get well again for Clara. Even if she'd failed, even if it hadn't been for the betterment of herself, her wife still provided a strong motivator to get better. Perhaps with Sherlock, it was the same. After all, he claimed to be married to his work the first time John had had dinner with him. "I can see how you'd want to get sober for your work. Transfer one high to another, so to speak."

"My counselor in rehab wasn't particularly enthused by that explanation, but yes. She saw it as destructive, if less so, for the danger I put myself in, but it ends in a net positive." He shrugged and sat up. "And now, well..." He looked down at John with a smile. "When I left rehab, I stayed at one of our country cottages for a while to readjust. A couple weeks after that, I returned to the city. I'd only been back about ten days, staying in a hotel until I found a place to live. Mycroft told me about Mrs. Hudson and I made an arrangement with her. Along with obligatory searches, I had to find a flatmate. It was all organised to give me the best chance possible to remain sober."

John smiled back up at him and lifted a hand to graze lightly along his cheek.

"Considering, I think your chances played out pretty well, hm?" His fingertips drifted down the side of Sherlock's neck, brushing over the spot on which there was a bite mark on John's own neck. "Helped me, too," he added, flashing back to that first breathless chase and giggle fit, only just after which he'd been reminded that he'd left his cane. His eyes narrowed as a question floated to him that he found he couldn't answer and his fingers stopped moving. "Why _did_ you choose me? To be your flatmate, I mean."

 

"When I asked you at Bart's about Afghanistan, you didn't balk. Everything I did in that room, as you understand now, is generally how I introduce myself if I haven't already decided I'm dealing with a moron. You were surprised and curious as to how I knew, but not offended by it. I made to leave for the mortuary without telling you where we were meeting by design. If you asked for the information, that meant you were invested. And you did. In short, you were interesting. I gave you the minimum example of why most people won't put up with me and you persevered. That's what initially hooked me. And, of course, as the next night went on, time and again you didn't back off. I took you to a murder scene without explanation and then left you there. I insulted your intelligence regularly, got you pseudo-kidnapped by my brother, dragged you back across town on a whim, ran you all over the city multiple times. And abandoned you yet again only to end up having to save me from my own incompetence. The real question, though you've answered it already, is why did _you_ stay?" he asked, chuckling a little, but it quickly died. "You stayed when no one else would have. When no one ever had."

He got out of bed and cloistered himself in the window seat staring out onto the lawns. "So now you understand fully what you've gotten yourself into. The faults of house Holmes, laid bare for you." He put his knuckles to his lips and looked out the window.

When Sherlock stood and moved, John sat up and watched him go. He gazed at Sherlock's still form at the window, drawing his knees up to his chest not out of protection but genuine curiosity. The position was childish in a sense; John had wrapped his arms around his shins and laid his chin on his knee, steadily gazing over at the figure by the window. Sherlock was looking out at the lawns - likely grounds he'd scampered all over when he was a small child. They probably reminded him of random memories buried deep in the storage rooms of his mind palace. Sherlock's back was also to him: either a show of standoffishness or an attempt to hide the emotions he likely couldn't keep from emanating any longer. Either way, it was out of reserve. John honestly didn't mind.

"And I'm not leaving now, either." Sherlock turned to glance at him and John gave a reassuring half-smile.

"Yes, I trust that, now." Sherlock returned to looking out the window, head thudding against the glass. "Mycroft and I...talked," he said slowly. "Many of my assumptions regarding the last fifteen or so years between us were wrong. Completely wrong." He drew up his own knees and hugged them as well. That, strangely, upset him more than anything else. Mycroft had always been the kindred spirit, until Jim came along, of course. The one person who understood in a way his parents and even John could not. Knowing now he'd wasted so much time infuriated him.

_Has it occurred to you we belong on the same side? Oddly enough, no._

And it hadn't, truthfully, so ingrained the bitterness had become. Mother was indeed right - they had just needed to suffer each other enough to remember why they had ever been close at all.

John's eyes flitted between the two jutting shoulder blades facing him. He laid his cheek on a knee and traced them absently with his eyes.

"How so?" he asked, gently pushing for details. In truth, he was curious - not morbidly so, of course, but enough to want to instigate a flow of further information. It was true that John had been curious as to Mycroft and Sherlock's relationship from the beginning. To be fair, naming a brother the most dangerous man you've ever met and an archenemy deserves a bit of explanation, and while John had been supplied enough information to validate the former, the latter had always puzzled him. No, he didn't get on with Harry, but he'd never call her his enemy...but then, the Holmeses were fond of dramatics, he supposed.

"I thought...he and father got on. Had the relationship I couldn't. Turns out he didn't either. And we...perhaps have wanted a bit more from each other than we realised." Sorrow pulled with greater intensity than he expected. "It used to be fun - the antagonism, the plotting, finding ways to get under his skin. For him, too, I think, in some kind of masochistic way that only people like us can appreciate. Like me and Jim, but without the collateral damage. But since I came home..." He sighed heavily, "I'm just tired, John. I had far more of my fair share of antagonism and plotting and counter-plotting for several lifetimes. Running aimlessly just trying to make it from one hour to the next. It's given me an appreciation for the simple and calm life I never understood before. I thought it would pass when I returned, but..." He curled in a bit more. "I recognise now what I wasted. Lost. And I miss it."

John's eyes widened fractionally and glimmered. He hadn't realized it, but Sherlock had grown right under his nose. Words flashed through his head, words from years ago wrapped in deep silk and cutting with repressed self-loathing.

_This hospital is full of people dying, doctor, why don't you go cry at their bedsides, see what good it does them?_

_Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them._

_Interesting, yes? Emotions...grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment._

_Alone is what I have. Alone protects me._

He blinked hard to get that last one out of his head. And here Sherlock was, a few years later. Articulate. Expressive. _Emotional_. And John hadn't been noticing that, right there beside him, the man really _had_ been listening to every last word.

Sherlock's spine buckled a bit under the force of a shiver. He really shouldn't have started talking about...all that. It wasn't the time, and he wasn't ready. Truthfully, he may _never_ be, but that was immaterial. His fingers dug into the flesh of his shin, retroactively rebelling against such a show of emotion. For a long moment, he was stuck again between pulling away and reaching out, but this time, with the weariness he mentioned so much closer right now, he was more decisive. He hopped back down and fled for the oversized mattress, sliding into the sheets and pillows face-first next to John.

"C'mere," he mumbled, tugging blindly on John's arm.

John had looked at his mother like she was crazy when she'd first explained to him that people were like elastic. You had to let them stretch, you see, she'd told him, stretch far away so they could come back to you. He'd always scoffed at the idea and what a romantic notion it was, but now he felt more than ever the elastic slackening as Sherlock nudged closer. He said nothing both because he didn't have to and didn't have anything to say, merely wrapped his arms around Sherlock's long midsection, spooning him from the side as he curled his smaller body around the larger as much as he could. Sherlock wiggled himself into John's embrace, their faces all but melting into one another.

"Still," he said in a husky whisper, "there's nothing I missed more than you." He'd turned enough from the pillow to address his partner, and promptly reburied his face once he said his piece. Despite today, despite whatever happened with mother and Mycroft here on out, he had this. And that was most important. His one great life victory that outshone the rest.

John shut his eyes quickly at Sherlock's words. He nestled his nose amidst the dark halo of curls that always seemed to float around Sherlock's head and breathed slowly and silently. He knew tricks, things he'd learned from laying in the sand about budgeting one's breathing and slowing one's heart rate down manually to save oxygen. He performed such respiratory maneuvers now so that he could stay there in that position, with his face unapologetically buried into the side of Sherlock's ring of hair and his nose constantly inhaling the man's extraordinary and utterly unique scent. When he'd had a good long while basking in the smell and feel of the other in his arms, he spoke again, at a whisper.

"Love you."

He wasn't quite sure whether or not Sherlock heard or understood him or was even awake anymore, but then, that wasn't really the point. Sherlock rolled onto his side to look at John again, having noted his change in demeanour.

"You alright?" he asked quietly, running a hand over a drawn and wrinkled forehead. "Too much?" Part of his hesitation in speaking about things like this was indeed out of concern for John's perspective. He didn't want to make him worry, or worse, upset him for its content. His lover had had more than enough upset for several people. John was particularly empathetic to Sherlock, too - almost as if he had to feel _for_ Sherlock, and that wouldn't do. This was about making him happy, easing his mind however he could both from his time away and just in general, knowing what he did now.

John opened his mouth to automatically respond with "It's fine," when he realized who he was talking to and that he wasn't obligated to say that if he didn't want to. Besides, he added to himself, Sherlock would see through it in four seconds or less.

"A lot," he admitted, subtly nuzzling his face against the hand on it. He paused in thought. "Not too much." And then there was a shifting closer, just slightly so, just enough to be close to Sherlock but not enough to smother him. He had meant it, too; yes, it was a hell of a lot to take in after just one night, but John _could_ take it in, and Sherlock knew that or he wouldn't have said all of it. "Just processing." Sherlock gave a slow nod.

"Okay." He gathered the blankets to cocoon them both, almost like a fort from a childhood abandoned. That was something he appreciated in John especially - his tolerance and even indulgence in Sherlock's more childish side. When appropriate, of course. Arms wound their way around John's torso amongst their collective burrito and held him. Learning that first night that John wanted to have sex with him was quite the pleasant revelation on his own, but in a miniscule, deeply remote part of him just doing this, being able to hold onto him as an anchor - or just because he _wanted_ to - was admitted to be the truly surprising gift.

Now they were even closer than before, neatly wrapped in the sheets in a tangle of skin and hair and limbs. John didn't mind. He honestly relished this closeness, didn't reach out for it nearly as much as he should and disliked asking for it too often for his partner's sake. But when those little moments just...happened on their own, he liked to smile inwardly as if he'd won a bet against himself and keep safely tucked underneath Sherlock's chin. He liked it here for the warmth and the tandem movement of the other man's respiratory and circulatory systems. Sherlock was just so... _alive_ , and it was a silly thing to marvel at, yes, but considering everything that could have happened and should have happened and might have happened, John was perfectly grateful to be here in his snug two-person cocoon. After a while of laying there together, a sudden thought stirred Sherlock.

"I haven't thanked you for today. Should have ages ago. However well the day went, your accommodations are what got me here as well as through the day. I know you'll just brush it off, but it's still pertinent, I think." He pet John's back, adding just a touch of fingernail to it to enhance the tactile sensation for both. Hesitation began to creep in, but he cut ahead of it before it could conquer his mind and silence him. His tone became increasingly reserved and quiet, hands as well growing tentative and still. "And for future reference, I think if I ever wanted anything of the ring variety, someday, it would be made of tungsten. For a number of different reasons."

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Running a bit late this month, sorry~
> 
> Enjoy!

John had been in the middle of shuddering and subtly arching around the touch when he realized what Sherlock was talking about and his eyes popped open. They searched the part of Sherlock he could see in vain, as all that was visible was his neck. But he could see a pulse, which quickened ever so slightly at the subject. He listened with acute perception, however, to detect the dwindling in Sherlock's voice as it retreated back behind the familiar wall of reserve. Really, though, it was shocking and more than a little endearing just to consider the thought that Sherlock had thought about this at all, much less thought it through that much. But then, John recognized a lack of surprise, there. It _was_ Sherlock, after all. Pressing a gentle kiss to a jutting collarbone, he added just a tinge of teeth before pulling off, and grinned.

"Duly noted."

"It's one of the strongest metals on the planet," Sherlock said quietly, picking up his petting again. "The process of making the ring must be to exact measurements, because once it's formed, it cannot be resized. Changed, save for melting it down entirely. All, or nothing." A fitting metaphor, indeed. One hand wandered into the valley of John's spine, nails and fingertips bumping along each vertebrae achingly slowly. "Impermeable, untarnishable." He'd reached the small of the other man's back, now, and spread his fingers wide to just brush the easy slope leading down to his arse. "And whatever you like, you shall have. However glittering and ostentatious, it will be yours. Someday," he added, just to ensure John felt no pressure. He and Mary still needed time.

"Right, because I'm definitely a glittery type of guy," John replied good-naturedly, unable to wipe that stupid grin off his face so he pressed his face further into Sherlock's neck and arched slightly more against his wandering hands. "Permanent," he murmured to himself, the idea of the ring floating through his head. "Yes, that might just be what you need. Something practically indestructible." His grin became more internalized and he pressed a closed-mouth kiss to Sherlock's Adam's apple. "I should like something nice, though. Practical. Like titanium or something."

"How terrifically functional of you. How about platinum instead? Don't want anyone to think I let my husband be seen wearing mere construction materials out in public." He rolled onto his back to let John move more freely. "Entirely too plebeian, even if tough." His hands sunk to take John's arse fully, pulling a bit at it as he squeezed. The small but nonetheless pleasing amount of substance to his lover's backside fit perfectly within his wide grip. "You really love having at the very heart of my throat, don't you, my little beastling," he teased, remembering the time he all but gnawed on it and shuddering a bit.

"But of course," John replied smoothly, despite the pleasant jolt to his system at being groped so firmly. He gave a slow, wide lick right along the bump. "Right there." At the last second, he moved off to the side and laved his tongue against the curve that joined Sherlock's neck and shoulder tendon. "And here." Again, he moved to scrape his teeth along the tiny hollow at the base of the other man's neck. "And sometimes here." He lifted his hungry eyes up to meet Sherlock's as if daring him to contradict. After a moment locked in an intense stare, he broke into a grin. "You want to dress me up. Spoil me. _Show me off_." With that, John ducked forward and stole a fierce kiss from the perfectly shaped lips hovering almost tauntingly right in front of him. "Platinum...the nerve," he muttered, unable to keep the telling smirk off his face.

Inwardly, Sherlock's interest piqued, even as he shook under his lover. If he didn't know any better (and _really_ , when was that ever the case), it looked like John wanted a turn of his own. Very well.

"Why wouldn't I want to, radiant creature that you are," he purred, "take you all over the city so everyone can see how gorgeous you are." Not exactly a tone he often indulged in, but as time went on, the more he understood how much John _needed_ to hear things like this. "Maybe I'll buy you a Bentley to be driven around in anywhere you want to go. Fucking grocery shopping, if you like. Anything so they know how excellently I take care of you." A massive grin split his face. " _Worship_ you." That got John going, so Sherlock twisted fingers around his skull and in his hair. "You like my throat. But what happened to finding new places, love? Secret ones only you know."

John pulled back suddenly, staring down at Sherlock. His eyes were flashing somewhat dangerously and he honestly looked like he could swallow the man whole. Without warning his gaze darted down over Sherlock's torso, visible to him only in their burrito of safety. Of course, it wasn't _really_ ever fair, as while Sherlock was a genius, it was John who knew the human body inside and out and consequently its most sensitive areas. He tilted his head, surveying Sherlock staring up at him as if he were a dish that John couldn't figure out how to begin to dig into. He finally decided on working his way down and without warning leaned down to bite lightly at the underside of Sherlock's upper arm, dragging his tongue over the mark and suckling down the inside until he got to mostly faded track marks. When he reached the slightly raised, roughened skin, he changed to light kisses down Sherlock's forearm before sucking kisses back up along the inside again.

It definitely wasn't something Sherlock expected as a first target in finding erogenous zones, but it _was_ appreciated. There wasn't a terrible amount of feeling left there, abused as it was. However, he dug his free hand onto John's scalp in encouragement. A thrill of a different kind flooded him, curled in his chest to the point of bursting. Reassurance and outright sympathy had been pulled around him like their bedding, soothing rather than enticing. The upper arm twinged a bit, more discomfort than anything positive.

"Lovely thought, _mi amor_ , but it's all rather destroyed along there." At least he'd never allowed himself to use the between-the-toes method. That would've been odd.

John's eyes flicked up briefly in acknowlegment and he seamlessly moved his head from Sherlock's inner arm to his side just above the hip, sinking his teeth into soft, pale flesh with a wolfish grin. Here he knew there had to be at least one spot - he just had to find it. The pet name had sparked something in him; now John was ravenous to hear those words flung in murmured half-languages. His bite retracted to an insistent tongue, swiping along salty skin and trailing up to suck hard just under the nipple. Once he'd left a small bruise there he kissed his way down again, pausing to bite down again on Sherlock's sharp hip bone before placing a series of licks just under his navel. Abdomen muscles twitched and tried to flee from the aimless, feather-soft tongue testing him. So close and yet miles away from his dick just beginning to pulse noticeably between his thighs. The nipping along his side had cracked his reserve, too. The actual sensation was a bit too much to be erotic, but left him vulnerable in softer places like his abdomen. Sufficiently warmed up, he turned himself over so his back was offered to John - virtually untouched territory.

"Excellent, love. Keep going. Show me where you can make me squeal." The mattress pressing up into him made him grit his teeth. Control. See how far John could go with him. A sudden thought took him. "How hard are you? Touch me with it. Run it all over me, please, John." The idea put all his rational thought in a headlock and wouldn't let it go.

The request threw John completely off, as was evidenced by his sudden stillness. Merely computing was all it was, though as Sherlock might have taken it to be reticence John quickly moved again and this time his movements were even stronger. He was, indeed, quite hard, and that helped matters tremendously as he didn't really have to guide himself so much as simply vary the movements of his hips across Sherlock's body, and was free to use his hands as he pleased - which he found he enjoyed using to pin Sherlock's own hands above his head, both sets of arms stretched, calloused palms laying atop pale ones and fingers intertwined. The position wouldn't work for the entirety of what John wanted to do to him, but for now he enjoyed the intimate control it provided him as he rutted his shaft obscenely up the ridges of Sherlock's spine.

"Didn't know this sort of vulgarity ran through that brilliant mind of yours," he breathed raggedly into a flushed ear.

"Oh,  _please_ , John, I am nothing if not a fan of indecency," he panted, keeping his head turned to the side. The suddenly-conjured fantasy was paying out for Sherlock in spades; he thought he could somewhat accurately predict the tactile sensation. Technically he was right, but lord was it so much more than he anticipated. John grew steadily more damp, easing the thrusts as well as exponentially increasing the eroticism of it. The pinning of the hands, too, was an unexpected delight. He'd been reluctant to ask, as he knew John would never acquiesce to having it done to him, but he apparently had little issue with doing it to others. Excellent. He'd begun rolling his hips compulsively, but did his best to keep it intermittent in order to prolong their sudden little experimentation session long as possible. The tradeoff, of course, meant Sherlock's brain went steadily more haywire.

" _Que vas a hacer conmigo ahora? Dime,”_ he whined, his fingernails beginning to press hard enough into the heels of his hands to threaten bleeding. He gave a particularly pitched cry as John ran up the back of his neck and drew off to the side to nudge the back of an ear. " _Jesus fuck._ "

John shivered; of course, that was what he had been waiting for. The ultimate relinquishment of the illusion of self-containment. Sherlock's tongue rolled beautifully when he trailed off in different languages, when English finally failed to convey his meaning. The both of them knew it was through giving up on the attempt to convey his meaning that he finally achieved it, anyway. John clicked his tongue as he bent down to briefly lap up the pre-come dribbling off Sherlock's neck and into his thick hair, deliberately not catching all of it.

"You are a fan of indecency," he agreed in a rough voice, noticing the audible response he'd received upon running over the spot behind Sherlock's ear. "What if I was to fuck you just here, just on this sensitive patch right here-" he demonstrated by rubbing his cock up against it once more, "-so that you'd be able to feel it down to your toes and you wouldn't even get to touch me?"

Sherlock's only response was a choked sound somewhere between a gasp and a moan. Yes, he  _definitely_  hadn't planned on any of this. He tried a sentence, only to dissolve in a jumble of noises as he inadvertently shifted his hips and sent an almost painful shock of sensation through his system.

"A-and leave me ha-a-" he was cut off again as John slicked against him, "h- _hanging_  here unable to help myself?" One heavy shudder rocked so hard his arse bucked up a little. He screwed his eyes shut to concentrate on getting the words out, slowly and in the proper language. "Come in m-my hair, down my neck all hot and  _fuckingChristJohnjustdosomething_ ," he babbled. " _Cualquier cosa, por favor. Lo necesito te necesito no puedo esperar!_ _Tocame!"_  he cried, straining in his lover's hands. Beyond that he continued slurring the occasional half-pronunciation of 'please' in various languages. It was inconceivable, how hard and heavy he'd gone under his own body weight, and yet between his hands being pinned and John atop him, there was very little he could do for himself.

Sherlock's squirming seemed to imply all John needed to understand from his continuous and alluring, wrecked babbling. He pursed his lips and proceeded to begin a slow torture for the both of them, moving his hips in such a hypnotic set of circles that the underside of his cock slathered against the back of Sherlock's ear and the reddened head was poking through his hairline. John bit his lip at the unbearably gentle, tickling sensation of it.

"Lost your mind already? I haven't even _started_ yet," he warned, his amused tone crackling with heat that seeped through underneath. Suppressing a breathy moan, John curled his fingers tighter through Sherlock's and squeezed his hands down against the bed even more. "I do want to touch you, my sweet, my love, my _beautiful_ brilliant man," he whispered, pouring out his affection and allowing Sherlock to see his hungry need all at the same time. As he continued, he punctuated each pause with a thrust that held power hitherto unknown: "I want to touch you so. Fucking. Much. But if I do that, I'd have to let go. And _Christ_ , there's no way in hell I'm letting go of you."

Sherlock was shaking constantly now, struggling to maintain a proper handhold so he didn't fall out of complete control. He was lucky he could even suss out what his lover was saying to him. Every slip of John's dick, particularly the ones that nudged underneath the shell of his ear and against his neck, restocked a raging inferno within his abdomen. Words had long since been abandoned for what would qualify as shrieking if not for the fact they were muted. High-pitched yet quiet bleating signifying Sherlock's all-but-complete departure from humanity. He certainly didn't  _feel_  human anymore- not because he felt John was subjugating him, but more for the idea he'd morphed into some manifestation of sexuality itself, balancing on the ever-thinning razor edge between orgasm and pain. Submission was something Sherlock thought he understood since he'd first let John have him; how utterly incorrect he'd been.  _This_  was abandonment of self and selfishness - not becoming an object, but a  _treasure_. Not even an hour ago he'd been the one pinning and ravishing and claiming - all things that anyone who knew him would expect and then some, but never this. Only John would ever have this. His shaking peaked for a moment and John's name clawed its way out from Sherlock's lungs, cried with emotion he was relatively sure he'd never laid into a single phrase in his life. 

Sherlock was beautiful like this. John wasn't sure if he was sad for the rest of the world, that it didn't get to see him like this, or possessively pleased that it was only him, that it would always and only be him who got to see. Sherlock would never believe him if he tried to put into words how absolutely breathtaking he was like this, nor did he think he could even put such a sight into words anyway. He settled for attempting to show rather than tell Sherlock what he thought of him, and with those delicious little cries floating up to him, John pushed down a little harder and widened his range. He was close, but he'd be damned if he'd come before Sherlock had at least _some_ kind of release. If he could have, John would have leaned down to suckle on the shell of his other ear, but because he didn't quite bend that way he settled for rutting mercilessly up along the groove of Sherlock's neck and over the back of it before returning to that sweet little spot behind his ear.

"I've got you, love," he managed between barely-contained moans of his lover's name, tightening his hands over Sherlocks for emphasis. "Let go...I want to see you let go..."

With a cutting, pleading sound, he ushered John to help. Thankfully, he understood; he released Sherlock's hands and flipped him over. Instantaneously Sherlock's arms re-locked themselves around John, clawing uninhibited into his back as he drug him back down. One brush of his lover's hand as he tried to get a hold of him was all it took. The ejaculation itself was short-lived, burst in one searing moment, but the greater sensation lasted much longer. Orgasm wavered in haphazard oscillations, causing Sherlock to periodically jolt. He'd have been screaming bloody murder if he hadn't been so overwhelmed - his jaw was all but ready to pop out of joint for how agape he was, but in sound could only manage a few strained sobs. It should _hurt,_  really, a meltdown such as this that made him feel as if his flesh was about to breach and explode, but...not quite. Warm liquid tingled the tips of Sherlock's rapidly-slackening fingers - he'd definitely done some damage to John's back, then. He would have apologised if he wasn't so preoccupied with relearning how to breathe. 

John had practically accepted that he'd have permanent scars on his back for the rest of his life. It wasn't a somber acceptance, as had been the first situation in which he'd received them; no, this was a mere acknowledgement of the fact that the time frame it took scars to heal was quite a bit longer than the period between bouts of intense, aggressive, or otherwise rough sex. And he was quite fine with that. Especially when he looked down and was reminded once again how a normally sexually indifferent man happened to be the most sexual being he'd ever laid eyes on. Sherlock looked absolutely _wrecked_. All it took was one half-second of their gazes locking, one set of eyes straining with pressure and the other swimming in release, for John to come. He only broke eye contact when it was literally too much, and by then they'd rolled back in his head and his entire upper body had arched back as much as Sherlock's restraining claws would let them. He'd been too overwhelmed to make a sound during the initial climax, but now as he was tossed about in its waves, his jelly arms gave out and he collapsed against his lover's messy front with a low, drawn-out keen. Sherlock was just recovered enough that, when John collapsed on top of him, his arms could slither fully around the other man. A weak neck shook as it tried to accommodate a mouth eager to press itself into John's neck, aimless and sloppy but nonetheless passionate.

"You," he mumbled, "perfect...rapturous...incomparable." So he continued on brokenly in his exultations, the irony that he was the one spouting superlatives after years of teasing John for doing so not lost even now on him. He couldn't give a fuck either. "Love you, John. Now, forever," his voice broke a little, but still he couldn't stop himself, "Stay, please, stay forever...need you." Their brief tiptoeing around his time away, coupled with the virtual time travel to childhood made for too potent of an emotional soup for a limited man such as the detective. Add to that a heavy-handed submissive sex session and you received a man utterly wrung to his last nerve, however happily. He shook from exhaustion and the aftereffects of their intense coupling, anchored to John with gnarled fingers. "My only. Without you..." he teetered on the edge of complete dissolution.

In the aftermath of it all John's face had, coincidentally, ended up smashed against a soft, damp shock of hair and a fluttering pulse. He quite happily remained quiet for Sherlock's vulnerable professions and allowed the other to talk himself to his wit's end before dragging himself up to press a half-kiss against the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

"Shh, love," he breathed with a little chuckle, then sobered a little to gently address his partner's words. "No 'without me' because I'm never leaving. You know that." Another little kiss to the corner of his mouth and John curled himself over Sherlock's body, semen be damned. He clung onto Sherlock like a koala, wrapping his legs loosely around and underneath Sherlock and looping arms around his neck under his head. Looking down affectionately at the flushed face beneath him that looked to be the very definition of 'utterly fucked', John twisted a hand enough to stroke along Sherlock's cheek. "You're exhausted," he noted, eyes scanning over the other man's face. "Use me as a blanket and sleep."

His breathing had picked up again as part of his sudden mental collapse, but John's words caught him by the metaphorical ankle and tugged him back towards Earth. "John," he whispered, the most vulnerable he'd felt in he couldn't recall how long...maybe ever? His partner was right, however; this was brought on in part at least by exhaustion. "Don't...don't ever let me forget this," he asked, voice still quaking minutely. "It's important I remember I can do this with you. Remind me...what I look like, sound like. Please, darling," he finished, hoping the completely uncharacteristic pet name would appropriately illustrate his sincerity and seriousness. Already he could feel sleep tugging at him compulsively, but his stubbornness kept his eyes open, brow drawn, and eyes locked on John's.

John's ears perked up at Sherlock's unusual and ever-so-slightly concerning words, but he understood why he had to say them. After a moment of shock and processing, though, he ducked down for a longer, more meaningful kiss than he'd given all night. Even as he slotted his lips against his lover's he could feel Sherlock's energy draining, and pulled away afterward to rest his forehead atop Sherlock's, completely engulfing him in John.

"You'll remember for a while. Trust me. And when you forget, I'll be right there to remind you. Love you." With an impulsive kiss to Sherlock's forehead, he slid down to rest his face in the crook of the other man's neck. This way, John could monitor Sherlock's heart rate and consequently his emotions in the case of sudden meltdowns or nightmares from the stress of the day. It was slowing now, though, which was good. He sent a private wish out into the air that the man could get some uninterrupted and much-needed rest.

"Yes. Love you, too," Sherlock slurred, now truly beginning to drop off. The blankets John had pushed back by sitting up were still just in Sherlock's reach, so he tugged them back up again so John wouldn't get cold. That done, his arms circled the other man's hips loosely and he shut his eyes. John being nestled where he was, Sherlock could only turn his head minutely to nuzzle him. "My John," he whispered reverently. The call of sleep became too potent then, dragging him down and away, gently chastising for not having any rest the night before.

This wasn't the first time John had fallen asleep after Sherlock, nor, he was sure, would it be the last. But tonight was special, if only for the fact that Sherlock was unnaturally exhausted from the combined lack of sleep the night before and stress of the evening. It certainly _had_ been stressful even from John's end, and though he didn't understand exactly what had happened to his partner this evening, he knew enough to know when even the great Sherlock Holmes hit his limits. Sherlock was quite adept at hiding his emotions, but when his defenses came down via physical depletion, emotionality was not far behind. Of course, John would never mention just how much of himself Sherlock revealed during these rare times, but as he laid his head gently in the crook of the man's neck and watched his chest rise and fall underneath his own body, John thought perhaps there _was_ a greater reason the impregnable detective abused his body so.

~

Sherlock woke half-past five immediately. No jolting due to a nightmare or somesuch thing - just his usual, sudden awakening. John had eventually rolled off him sometime in the night and recaptured him from behind, to the position he'd woken in. Carefully he prised himself from John and sat up. He remained for several moments just watching him. John stirred; Sherlock pulled a slightly panicked expression and smoothed a hand over his head to calm him again. When he stilled, Sherlock slipped out of bed and gathered up his pyjamas. He took a quick shower to make himself presentable, threw on his clothes and wandered out into the hall. He ended up downstairs in a parlour on the eastern side watching the sun rise. So he remained, stretched across a sofa when he heard a creaking behind him. He didn't turn - he knew who it was.

"Up early as usual, I see, mother."

"Sherlock," Miriam greeted with surprisingly more warmth than perhaps intended. "Yes, quite. Though, it's hardly usual for you, is it? You always were sleeping in late as you could." She paused, during which time she pursed her cupid's bow lips and her eyes drifted to the right. "Then again, I suppose I don't know if that's still true."

These days, it's not so much what time I awaken as opposed to when I actually sleep. It's...not exactly on a strict, day to day schedule," Sherlock replied as she headed for a seat.

With what seemed to be effortless grace, Miriam glided over to an ornate, overstuffed chair and primly perched her slender figure in it with a neatness that could only be achieved through decades of conditioning in high society. She glanced over, a pair of eyes identical to her son's fixing on his reclining form. "John seems a nice man. Quite...disarming."

Sherlock shifted a bit where he lay in a brief show of nervousness.

"He is, inconceivably so. He told me about your conversation." He turned to look at her. "He likes you. Called you...kind." His toes curled into the armrest at the far end of the sofa as he considered his next thought. "Thank you for giving him a chance," he said diplomatically.

_The one you never gave me_ , he thought to himself, most likely easily readable in his demeanour.

She narrowed her eyes almost imperceptibly in analysis of his comment. Having easily ascertained his meaning through his facial cues, something in her own gaze shifted to reveal a slight sadness, and she allowed it rather than looking away.

"Oh, no, I'm quite sure it was the other way around," she replied with a small, knowing smile. "It was rather like I was the one in unfamiliar territory, though he was fairly quick to become friendly once he'd warmed up." She sat back slightly in her chair. "A facet of his general good character, I imagine." She tilted her head slightly as she looked at him, as if debating whether or not to make mention of something. "And you and your brother? Are you...on better terms?" she asked.

"If by 'better', you mean not actively considering the most efficient means of killing one another, then yes," he replied with a touch of ice. Talking about _that_ with mother was utterly unappealing...but being so harsh about it wasn't terribly helpful, either. He adjusted his attitude. "But if you're that curious, Mycroft and I...came to an accord on a few aspects." He decided to leave it at that, crossing his arms and kept his gaze fixed on the window. Why couldn't she just talk about John instead? That was far, far easier. He could talk about _him_ all day.

At his quick rebuff, she finally dipped her eyes cautiously away and looked down at her hands; a subtle sign of submission. She didn't want to anger him, or get into an argument. There had been plenty of those earlier in her life, and with them, she was done. Right. So Mycroft was off the table. He seemed to soften up at the mention of John, though, and why wouldn't he?

"Your relationship with John has developed quite recently, am I correct?" Or, perhaps if the doctor felt as much for her son as long as he claimed, the relationship was not so much new as it had simply been previously latent. "I suppose future plans are, at this point in time, unconsidered." She knew that was untrue; only a day before Mycroft had informed her that Sherlock intended to make John the main handler of her son's trust fund. Still, curiosity was piqued as to how serious Sherlock was.

"You are mostly correct," Sherlock replied, "there are no active plans being considered, mostly because John still needs time sorting his perspective regarding Mary. However..." He chewed the inside of his cheek and frowned in thought. "We discussed marriage. It's a long ways off, but virtually guaranteed." Eyes shot back over to his mother in silent challenge, measuring her up and down. "I love him, mother. For a long time. This isn't some flight of fancy for either of us. I doubt John has the wherewithal for another heartbreak after what he has been through anyway. Even you must know I'm not the type for trivial dalliances." There it was again, that bitterness. Apparently he really _couldn't_ help it. He winced a bit at himself for his lack of control and courtesy.

Ah, so he wasn't ready. Miriam withdrew accordingly, becoming slightly colder in demeanor though she did not allow her respect to the conversation to diminish. Sherlock was still too volatile to be able to handle her when she was warm and vulnerable; no matter. Another time. Still, his words penetrated through her exterior just a bit, as her eyes softened.

"Yes, that was obvious," she conceded, keeping her gaze persistently fixed on her son. The corners of her mouth twitched slightly. "Why do you think I so readily called him my son-in-law? He feels as much." She inhaled, taking her time, and chose this moment to glance around the room casually before lightly adding, "I suppose if marriage is a while off, a family is out of the question?"

The knee-jerk inclination was rabid defence, but he reined himself in just in time. It wasn't fair - she didn't know. He gave a heavy sigh, sat up and turned to address her directly.

"Even if we were getting married tomorrow, children are not an option, for several reasons. Not the least of which being our job. But..." His eyes dropped to the floor in a sort of mental apology to John, "more than anything John...the circumstances by which he was widowed have...put him off from likely even considering adoption. She...died in childbirth. And you know _nothing_ about it, do you understand?" He did away with his usual stoicism and held his mother's gaze with uncharacteristic sympathy. He felt she needed to understand why it was never going to happen, especially since it meant never having grandchildren. Even he understood she deserved at least that much. Miriam's eyes flashed in horrified shock even though the rest of her face remained impassive.

"Understood," came the quiet reply when she'd finally collected herself enough to speak. "I...apologies." She couldn't be disappointed, even though she wanted to be. She may not have been able to fulfill the iconic role of grandmother and have another chance at showing motherly love, but there was still John to welcome into the family, and as far as sons-in-law went, it seemed she couldn't have asked for a better one. Though...John did seem quite haunted, more severely so than simply from what she'd just learned had happened to him in recent months. Sherlock, on the other hand...In many ways, Sherlock was unlike either of his parents, but especially this...care he had for this man. It was most peculiar; with John, he seemed protective and caring the likes of which she'd never seen in him before. As she surveyed her son, she couldn't help but feel a sweep of pride.

"It's fine. I just wanted you to understand why without bringing it up to John. It is still very difficult for him." Of course, he noticed her expression. Again, pride. Self-consciousness filled him once again, made him reluctant. He forced himself to recall his words the previous night regarding Mycroft - being tired of the antagonism. It was true here, as well. That didn't mean he had to be happy and familiar, though. He stood and approached the window. "Why?" There was no need to add context. She would understand. All his paranoia and assumed conspiracy from yesterday had mostly dissolved, but the unspoken sentiments still crowded his mind. "And why now?" He recalled her hand on his arm yesterday, the burning sensation accompanying it for its rarity and the emotions that had accompanied it. Surreptitiously he slid a hand from his crossed arms up to that spot.

She let out a delicate, almost inaudible sigh and allowed her expression to leak emotion now that Sherlock's back was turned to her. Her shoulders slumped a bit from her perpetual pin-straight posture and suddenly the bags underneath her well-aged face were much more harshly defined. She opened her mouth once, found she did not have the correctly formulated words to speak yet, and closed it again to rearrange her thoughts. Once she had them in working order, she began again.

"Your father...I knew what kind of man he had been to you two. What I hadn't realized was how much I...allowed myself to become more like him. I allowed myself to let you go. When he died, when he was finally gone from this world, then the veil was lifted. I have...admittedly, been trying to find a way to reconnect since then, so when I heard that you had a serious relationship, for the first time, I just felt it was my...chance."

Sherlock said nothing for a long while, evaluating his options. He _could_ simply write her off. Say it was too late. It wasn't, however, tried though he had for so long to simply excise the remaining sentiment. Her gentility towards both he and John was helping immensely as well. He could give into one of his conniptions and shout every last iota of his anger and frustration and sadness. But the flame wasn't there. Fits like that were, with him, flashpoint events, never staged or forced. Some of those caged thoughts, however, had a place in a rational, if difficult, conversation. And besides, her rationale was...off.

"You _let me go_ because I shamed you publicly, don't try to deny it. I shoved our family into a spotlight for open mockery, and when everything for you and father was all tidied up, you hid yourselves back away and left me there to fend for myself. Never mind I didn't know better, or was repentant for it. Not that I ever should have been for an honest mistake." His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "Never mind I was _your child_."

At that, Miriam squeezed her eyes shut. If she made not a single suspicious sound, there might be a chance he would not turn around and leave her to her reactions. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, however, she dropped her head in silent shame. The pride was still there, coursing through her veins, as vital to her as the very blood that ran with it. She shook her head and opened her eyes, surreptitiously dabbing at the corners as she did so and taking care not to sniffle.

"Yes," she finally agreed, voice unmistakably rough, and at that she winced. "Yes, I will admit to all of that. I have been...a terrible mother. Cold and selfish and unforgivably proud-" Her voice broke and she looked sharply to the left in disgust. When she regained her composure, she let out a deep breath before continuing. "And it is probably a good thing I will never have grandchildren because I would likely not behave well with them, either, but..." A sudden wave of conviction overtook her and she stood, blinking indignantly at her son's back. "I would like to change that. I do not expect you to accept my olive branch, but my God, for the first time I would like to try."

Sherlock's own eyes closed when he heard the tremor in his mother's voice, though he didn't turn until she finished her thought, partially out of respect of her moment, and also because he was honestly afraid to. After taking a moment to regard his bare feet in contemplation, he spun on a heel and took a few hesitant steps forward.

"What made everything the most...unpleasant about the situation," he said, reaching for euphemism to spare them both, "was that I could remember a time when I had a mother who cared. Spent time with me. Did more than the basic ministration when I was ill." He caught her wavering eye. "So I believe it might be a bit presumptuous of you to assume you wouldn't make a good grandmother."

Surprisingly, the effort was all he required; for years he'd written off the idea there could ever be reconciliation, forgiveness, because he felt no words could appropriately encapsulate the proper remorse. Now, though, he was older, perhaps in the way his mother was. Not in age, but wear, thirty years too early.

"Five years ago, if we'd had this conversation - and we wouldn't have - I might have laughed spitefully and left you where you stand. But now..." he sighed, "John certainly helps, but even more than that was my time away. I find I have much less time and patience for pettiness and mockery, however deserved by the receiving party. I used to thrive on solitude, but it seems I drew too eagerly from that well of strength and depleted it. With that came a lot of regrets, of which John was one until recently. If I can live with one less, that would be...nice." The shine in his mother's eyes forced him to grind his back teeth, but still he held her eyes.

A single, small sob left her mouth before she reached up to cover it with her hand and prevent any more from escaping. Her first throbbing instinct in years was to reach forward and hug her son, but she understood what kind of person he was and, though she was changing, what kind of person she was, and so stayed put. Not bothering to wipe the tears that glistened at the corners of her eyes like dewdrops, Miriam settled for resting a hand on Sherlock's upper arm - there, that was contact she could be happy with and he could stand, she hoped. She struggled mightily, but eventually regained a shred of her ever-waning composure and managed a watery smile up at him, allowing her hand to remain on his arm, as if she could gather all the information and simultaneously transmit all the affection that had both been absent in years previous.

"Yes," she agreed after a moment of just searching his face. "I think that would be quite nice, indeed."

The hand reclaimed the place it held the night before, sizzling all the more for the fact he wore only a t-shirt. Haltingly, his opposite hand joined and sat atop hers. Not only could he see her overflowing of posthaste affection in every ounce of her due to his gift, but for once he could _feel_ it implicitly too. The biological connection between parent and offspring, tarnished but unbroken. He could categorise it properly as love, but it felt different from John's. Less fiery, but more substantial. A quiet, heavy breath left him. He knew exactly what she wanted, and luckily for her he'd been receiving a rapid re-education of physical familiarity and was feeling generous. Besides, watching his mother cry was something even he nor Mycroft could be aloof to. Prising her arm free gently, he took the last step forward and brought his arms up under hers for a simple embrace.

"I would be very happy if I could provide John a proper family to visit sometime. Somewhere he doesn't have to pretend, or care for others at the cost of himself. In that way, perhaps I can provide _you_ a second chance."

The embrace was all it took for the last vestiges of her pride to be wiped away. She hugged him back as tightly as was appropriate, and in her mind she hugged him tighter. In her imagination, she'd always found herself wishing she could go back, that he was small again and she could embrace him and continue to do so and not stop as she had. Now, however, she held no illusions of second first chances. She didn't want them, even if she ever miraculously could have them; embracing her son as a man, especially as the man he'd become, was so, so much better, and she was grateful he'd grown into who he was without her help. Though the comment about John's own family made her twinge with intrigue at its oddity, for the time being, at least, she ignored it. Another time, if ever.

"Thank you," she said in a voice laced with something strange that she only realized as raw emotion later. "I would be honoured to provide such a family - for the both of you."

Words could not describe (not that Sherlock would ever vocally admit it anyway) how satisfying it was to feel her eager, accepting embrace around him. Sherlock pulled back enough to simply leave his hands at his mother's shoulders. He pursed his lips in thought.

"Why didn't he care?" he asked abruptly, impulse overriding his usual containment. "Why have one, much less two children if he had so little interest?" The questions and tone were perhaps childish, but these were questions that had haunted him two-thirds of his life, and this was his first real opportunity to have them answered. "I understand why you didn't divorce - appearances - but..." His eyes dropped to his feet and he bit his lip. "I don't understand any of it. And I think you can imagine how that frustrates me on several levels." Certainly the wounded child in him was to be considered, but so, too, was the man invested in uncovering every puzzle and secret from others. Miriam grimaced, her euphoria at him returning the embrace short-lived.

"Your father..." she began slowly, trying to conjure some accurate words. "He was a very inwardly private man. Of course, he had the social charm of a politician - had to - but was quite mysterious regarding particularly personal or...emotional matters. It was one of the things that first drew me to him, actually. He was such a puzzle." She smiled faintly, eyes distant and mind somewhere else altogether. "While I cannot speak for certain on his part due to his nature, I can tell you what I know from decades of slowly figuring him out." She frowned and a small crack down the center of her fine brows formed. "Your father...What you need to know, Sherlock, about your childhood is that almost none of it was your fault. Now, let me speak to that - of course, you were often difficult, and that certainly did not help matters, but your relationship...Your father had more self-loathing than any man I know, and yet he was prouder than any. I can't say for certain, as he's never once discussed his feelings since we were in our twenties, but I got the impression that looking at you and Mycroft was...particularly hard to bear for him, as in you children he saw himself."

"I fail to see how that is an effective excuse," Sherlock replied, tone sharp but eyes soft in regarding Miriam. "If they way we seemed to him was so terrifying, wouldn't he have a vested interest in seeing we _not_ end up as he did? That is generally how parenting is supposed to work, isn't it?" He abandoned her side to take up pacing near the window, brow scrunched in thought. "And forgive me if I have pause in believing that he was any shade of self-loathing. Even in failing health he couldn't conjure the inclination to inquire after me about it. Couldn't bother to put up with seeing me for five minutes on his deathbed so he could just die without replying and have some minute piece of mind." His tone grew more and more bitter as he spoke, and his pivoting more aggressive.

"Might I remind you that his self-loathing was accompanied by no small amount of pride," she replied, tone weary, as if she no longer wished to speak of her late husband in such emotional detail at all. "I would understand it if you offered nothing but scorn, but we knew about your work. We read John's blog, in which you were frequently mentioned, and were glad of his involvement in your life regardless of its nature. He _was_ proud of you, Sherlock, even moreso, I think, for how you chose to rise and succeed in your own way.He...left something, specifically to you. Make what you will of it, but before he passed, he gave instructions for a deed to be in your name, of a secondary property of some sort. Should you ever enter into a relationship that evolved into marriage, or even if you were to live on your own at a point, you could have somewhere to call your own and make use of it how you pleased." She stood her ground and pursed her lips, giving one sharp nod. "He _wa_ s sorry. That I do know."

Sherlock froze halfway through the tread he'd picked up repeating. Despite having an excellent imagination and unparalleled skill in recreating crime scenes within his mind, for the life of him he couldn't picture his mother and father in front of a computer reading one of John's case writeups. Frankly, the idea of his parents even being able to _access_ the Internet felt prepostuous.

"How did you even...I mean I always assumed Mycroft told you about my work in some capacity, but..." Another, far more shocking thought struck him. "Regardless of its nature?" he quoted, voice pitched with surprise, "You mean to tell me...he wouldn't have cared...about John?" The question ended on something just above a squeak.  His eyes narrowed in utter disbelief, but his slackened jaw and lifted eyebrows betrayed how deep the implication struck. If they had been that well-informed on his life and work with John, there was little doubt that they knew as well about the storm of rumour surrounding their relationship in the tabloids. 

Her son's shocked response had been expected, but the decibel at which it was emitted was not. The result proved quite amusing, though Miriam would not dare elicit so much as a smirk due to the forcefulness of his response.

"You were a troubled young man with whom he had absolutely no contact. Do you think something like the sexuality of your alleged partner was at the forefront of importance to him? Perhaps years ago, when you were still in the same household, but certainly not now, and certainly not with such a clearly moral and fiery person as John. He actually rather enjoyed the man's writing. It was quite entertaining - oh, but the press is awful to you two. The gossip is absolutely shameless. He had never commented except to say that they could surely lighten up and afford you some privacy."

"You describe me as troubled," Sherlock repeated, drifting back over to the sofa he'd previously been sitting on. "So you...and father...were concerned for my safety and well-being?" He forced his expression to be passive, but for a minute twitching at the corner of his mouth. "At least he never lived to see me painted as a fraud, dead or otherwise. Lord knows he couldn't have handled _that_." The remark was meant to be biting, but his continued shock at his father's passive opinion of his sexuality dulled it considerably, distracted as he was. If he truly let his cynicism drop, it sounded like father might have even _liked_ John, had they met.

_Military man, painfully responsible, straightforward and direct...all qualities he would have approved of._ His gaze glassed over in thought, chin resting on his hand.

"All this, and he ends up fretting over my ability to walk down the street without being accosted by paparazzi," he mumbled to himself, voice a little tight.

"Of course we were concerned. Honestly, Sherlock, did you think that low of us?" she asked incredulously, then immediately bit her lip and turned her head. Of course he did. And really, why shouldn't he? They hadn't given him reason to think otherwise. She cleared her throat and chose to change the subject, diverting away to something slightly less volatile. "Well, you know your father in that respect, at least. The man loved his privacy. It might have..." An almost delicate frown formed on her face as she struggled for the courage to finish her thought. "It might have been...easier, for things to have happened how they did. If he had to have gotten ill, I suppose you're right. It's better he hadn't been there to see it. The shock might've...Lord knows what it did to me."

Sherlock turned where he sat and held a hand out to Miriam in invitation to sit next to him.

"I apologise, implying you were that uncaring was..." he let the thought drop and hung his head. "So when news of my...death...went around, did Mycroft inform you properly? Surely he didn't let you stew in that too long?" Miriam had folded her hands in her lap; Sherlock let one spidery palm gently lay over the top of hers. Even at his lowest opinion of his parents, he was relatively sure he wouldn't have wanted them having to live in a lie that profound for an extended period of time. What it did to John had been terrible enough; Sherlock was, at the end of the day, his parents' son, and a lifetime of dealing with murder gave him a suitable understanding of how parents reacted to such trauma, even if he never had reason the care before. It was Miriam's turn to look past Sherlock and out the window, eyes darkening slightly from the memory.

"He didn't wait long at all, by his standards, but he had to be careful no unwanted attention was being directed his way. He didn't want to draw attention to me. After your father...and then you...I was quite distraught." Her words were fairly mild, but the way she spoke them betrayed their true intensity. "About two and a half weeks after I saw it in the papers, he came to inform me in person. Said I could not see you or talk to you, but that you were safe. It was, in part, that compound of events that prompted me to take action before I withered."

"I'm sorry it came to that. Truly. For you, John...despite its necessity, there were days even I questioned the decision. It was...so long, mother," Sherlock said quietly, tangling his fingers in his curls. "Long and lonely. And when John got married...I..." He sighed heavily; talking about this even tangentially was exhausting. How he was going to do this with John was beyond him. "You say it was only part of your reasons why. What is the rest?" There was little reason to bring up his relapse with mother - it would only hurt her feelings. Miriam swallowed and lightly placed a hand atop his.

"I know I'm not quite the mother you, perhaps, should have had. I wasn't there. I really have no excuse. I did leave you alone to suffer and learn on your own. I do not have any excuse for that either." She sighed and looked down at their hands, tracing her index finger along a tiny vein in his wrist. "I'm a bit tired of having no excuse for failing to raise my children. I know you and your brother have already raised yourselves, but I'd like to have some sort of relationship. If that is amenable to you, of course."

Sherlock mused over her speech for a bit. Eventually he slid his hand into hers fully.

"It will take time to absorb all of this, but since I've come home, John and I both have been working on our inherent issues with self-deprecation, and I think it might be more than a little hypocritical of me to deny you the same opportunity for my own shallow satisfaction." Her hand was surprisingly warm despite its thin, sinewy substance. "I will admit, I was filled with all manner of suspicion and conspiracy when I arrived, but your treatment of John alone has allayed a considerable amount of it. And I, too..." _missed you_. However true, he couldn't finish the sentence, but he did lift his eyes to meet hers, allowing an uncharacteristic show of emotion to flood his expression. "What I've learned since yesterday has been a very hard lesson in hubris for all of us, I think."

Despite herself, Miriam let out a small gasp of a laugh and tightened her grip in his slightly.

"Yes, most certainly. I don't believe I've been this emotional since ...well it would have to have been about four years ago." Suddenly her smile dropped and a troubled look replaced it. "I cannot imagine how difficult it must have been for John. He is quite different, you know. I like to think I can tell. You mentioned self-deprecation, and I don't believe I have ever met a humbler man." She looked up at him with a small smile. "I suppose you knew that, though. Still, he is not as average as he would have you or I believe. Not average at all, I think. He and you may be similar in that respect."

At that, Sherlock gave a short chuckle of his own.

"Before we came, we briefly discussed John's innate ability to appear completely unassuming when he is anything but. His extraordinary nature is very well-hidden under layers of humility and standoffishness. He is superlative in a subtle way I can never be." A smile, warm and loving, spread across his face. It added a new, pleasant depth to his appreciation of John to know someone else saw it there, telling him he wasn't mad or being deceived. Certainly he'd never seriously consider John as duplicitous, but the affirmation was...nice. "But you're correct, it was exceedingly hard on him, not knowing the truth. And Mary...to be frightfully honest, I doubt John will ever return to being the exact man he was before I left, or even when he met his wife. I have no issue with that at all, however. "It..." his eyebrows drew together, "it, ah, almost...no, it legitimately _does_ frighten me, how much I care for him, mother," he said, any reticence in being honest with his mother so soon lost for the fact the thought gnawed at him so. "The...raw need is..." he shook his head, suddenly at a loss for words.

"Troubling, I should think, for one so outwardly independent as you," she finished his sentence with a tilt of the head that was both fond and thoughtful. "Evidently not so troubling that you have seen need to push him away permanently - though, come to think of it, I don't know if that would have done you any good to try, with a man such as him." She smiled and patted his hand gently. "If anyone can have such success at handling a Holmes as John has, I would think he'd need to be quite tenacious." As her son's words swirled about in her head, they resonated in some chord inside that compelled vocalization. "Truthfully, dear," Miriam began quietly, using the extremely rare term of endearment, "from the events that have happened in these few years, I'd be concerned if he _was_ the same man."

"You make an excellent point. He shouldn't be the same, no. But so much of what he has suffered is because of me, I feel painfully responsible for it."

Why on earth was he talking about this with her? Upon their arrival Sherlock had been adamant in his will to lock away misgiving and doubt and weakness in the face of his mother. In fact, he'd been doing that to one degree or another for ostensibly a whole week, and one sincere show of emotion from the woman sitting next to him had brought it all crumbling down. He could still pull back, reserve himself once again, but the opportunity to speak about this besides John was unique. And, frankly, strange to do, as he didn't normally _have_ anyone other than his partner he was willing to be so open with. Cracking open reticency was, apparently, an immutable skill of motherhood.

"And as far as pushing him away...I do that, sometimes. Especially in the days leading up to this visit. And before the kidnapping, I warned him that I'd have moments of retreat. That I would panic and try to hide myself away. He told me he expects it and doesn't care. That it's worth it." His voice grew very soft. "No one has ever told me that before." To allay his mother's almost certain upset at the comment, he squeezed her hand a little in vague reassurance.

Tried though the did to keep a calm exterior, Miriam couldn't help the slight edge to her voice as she pressed, "Kidnapping?" Sherlock blinked; evidently he thought she'd already known through Mycroft, or else wasn't going to bring it up at all. She also understood why Mycroft would decide not to tell her in order to spare her. The Holmes matriarch, however, was tired of being spared. She knew and Sherlock knew she knew that her son's self-proclaimed occupation often put him in danger, and if something had happened to him as recently as she had reason to believe, she wanted to know about it. Notification of the bad was just as important in this process as that of the good.

"Um..." A tiny spike of fear hit Sherlock spine; mother wasn't going to appreciate learning her son and newly-minted son-in-law had so recently been in such grave danger. Still, the look on her face clearly gave no room for argument or dodging euphemism. His hand not in his his mother's scratched at the nape of his neck. "I...made a mistake while I was away, which culminated in my true identity being discovered by an organisation I infiltrated. Not any of Moriarty's people - they're all gone, now," he followed up quickly, noting her surprise, "but a seperate band of thugs out for what I took from them. They decided the best way to coerce me into giving what they wanted meant kidnapping John. I and Mycroft took care of it," he said, a smirk bending his mouth recalling the destruction they had wrought, "but it was not the best first foot forward in a relationship. The bruising on my face is an injury I sustained during those two days. And, as you have seen, John is fine. I assure you, those who took him laid severely for it." His tone was ice-cold and steely.

Where Miriam might have shivered for the cold murder in Sherlock's tone and the implications of what he was capable of, she didn't. It might have been a tribute to the family quality of steeliness, but she merely gave one sharp nod in her son's direction and replied calmly.

"No doubt it was a necessity." Not that she claimed anywhere near the level of protectiveness of Sherlock when it came to John, but having gotten to know him as she had and knowing now the depth which her son's love for him ran, she had no qualms with disposing of people that had put the both of them in danger. A small stab of cold satisfaction passed through, followed immediately by warm pride. "We both know John is an impeccable partner, but I'm not sure quite how much you realize your worthiness, as well."

That Miriam was unfazed by her son's latent bloodlust was of no surprise; a body count wasn't unheard of in their family's history and heyday. She likely was at least somewhat informed on Mycroft's position and job description as well. Perhaps even now, in the modern era, she and father had their own stash of skeletons. Sherlock felt his neck redden a bit at his mother's reassurance, but other than that gave no outward show of emotional effect.

"Yes, I do doubt my viability as a good partner for John. And I imagine I don't really have to explain why to you, either." He left it at that - it wouldn't do to drag their collective damaged psyches through the proverbial muck for the sake of redundancy. "However, your encouragement is appreciated." His hands lifted to his lips in his customary position of thought, a few lingering questions still swimming in his mind. "So when did father deign to forgive me, then, for my transgression?"

She smiled; secretly she'd been wondering when he'd bring up his father again.

"I'd ask to which transgression you were referring, but it hardly matters." At a cautious question mark stamped across her son's face, she elaborated: "It hardly matters, Sherlock, because he'd forgiven you so much more easily than any of us could have imagined. The real question is when he forgave himself. It is quite a quality among us, our ability to be surprisingly forgiving of others and so merciless with ourselves - though, I do not flatter myself to think it is just our family. That might be human nature." She studied his thoughtful expression noting little ripples of facial muscles here and there before glancing back out the window. "Regarding your father, however...no, I don't think he harbored any resentment of you at all, in the end."

Sherlock balked; Miriam's answer was neither the answer he expected nor the one he could handle. He stood in a rush and headed for the window.

"That...is..." He slammed his hand against the window moulding. "Such a bloody cop-out!" he seethed. He turned to face her again, fists clenched. "He up and stopped talking to me for _years_ , mother, after that damned party. Outside of scolding me, of course. Where does he get off on 'forgiving me' for something that wasn't even my fault in the first place _and never making an effort to tell me?_ " he shouted. "I don't want to hear a damned thing about that old man forgiving _himself_ when he never afforded me a courtesy in my life!" He folded his arms, fuming, and turned away again.

_Condescending son-of-a-bitch, getting the last in no matter what I do._

Miriam flinched. She'd forgotten how easily Sherlock could move from completely neutral and perhaps even docile to enraged in the blink of an eye. It was something his older brother had never had the talent for, the ability to shift so suddenly and dangerously; this was entirely Sherlock.

"Alright," she said quietly, finally. This conversation had certainly been trying, even exhausting; perhaps Sherlock was simply at the end of his considerably short emotional tether and speaking about this aspect of his father had pushed him over. She stood and smoothed out her simple pastel pink silken dress. "Perhaps that's enough."

No, no, _stop_. He had been doing extraordinarily well, too. Letting out a heavy sigh, he rubbed at his sinuses and turned back towards Miriam.

"No, please, don't...I'm sorry. Regardless of blame, you're not the one I should be shouting at. It's just..." He ran a hand through his hair. "It's an old wound. One that won't heal quickly, if at all. What you've told me...is a challenge to wrap around my head. Much as I understand it's not worth it to be angry, I can't help myself. I just... _why_?" he spluttered in frustration. This was too much. He needed time, and space...and John. Welcoming mother back in was a solace, of course, but she wasn't John. "Mother, I...perhaps we should part until breakfast? I don't intend to upset, I merely need time to think." He approached again and sat down.

"You need your partner," she corrected him, secretly shocked and impossibly pleased at his display of maturity. "It _is_ quite early," she admitted, moving to sit back down next to him. "Perhaps you could do with another couple hours of rest, or maybe a walk?" She hoped he'd take a suggestion and have time to clear his head, but with Sherlock, she hardly ever knew exactly what he wanted. Though she'd never dare say it out loud, he was like his father in that respect: a puzzle. She sighed. "I understand if your wound, as you say, never healed. You're right; perhaps it won't. Certainly a large chance for it died with your father. But...all I can ask, gently of course, is that you try.”

"I think that is, perhaps, what bothers me about it. That I can't...just...get an answer from the source." It was as though all the grief he should have felt four years past rushed him now in a frenzy, mocking him all the while for not taking advantage when he could have. His heart seemingly on tenterhooks for the sensation of anguished pulling in his chest.  He took another heavy breath and regarded Miriam. "At least...we have accomplished this," he said affirmatively. "I _will_ try, mother, I assure you of that."

They stood together; Sherlock took her hands briefly again.

"Thank you," he murmured as he stared at their joined hands. Miriam chose to keep her gaze on Sherlock's strangely soft face. She smiled.

"Thank _you_. I had not been certain you would come at all; certainly you must have seriously considered deciding against it. I am...glad, however, that you did. It had been quite an education for me - the both of us, I think." Their intense and emotionally taxing conversations ran through her head and her shoulders drooped slightly. "Go," she said. "Clear your head of all this rubbish for a little while. Surround yourself with a man who so clearly loves you, and allow him to help."

"Sound advice," he replied with a faint nod. "You...will be alright?" Her eyebrows shot up in surprise, but she nonetheless returned a small nod of her own. Relinquishing her hands, Sherlock strode off past her and back out the door. As he padded the halls of his childhood home, the ambiance no longer quite so pressing and haunted. Still dark, but warm, now, rather than eerie. Quicker than he had left he returned to John, who was still nestled in blankets and sleeping. As he should - it wasn't even seven yet. Once the door was quietly closed behind him, Sherlock tossed off his shirt, but kept his pyjama pants on as he slipped back onto the bed and into the blankets. He pulled John into an embrace once he settled, put his raging thoughts and emotions on the back burner and just let himself sink into the mattress and his partner.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am incredibly sorry for the delay. October was...difficult for me.
> 
> Also, going to put a mild TRIGGER WARNING on this chapter for usage of vague BDSM themes.
> 
> Thank you for your patience! - midget

Sherlock likely knew this, and John would never say anything about it, but the fact that he didn't wake up even at the disturbance was a testament to how incredibly safe he felt with the man, and how much Sherlock had actually helped him, to the point where John's second-nature military defence skills were deemed unneeded by his subconscious. In fact, he didn't wake up until almost two hours later. When he did, turning his head to assess his position meant almost whacking Sherlock in the face, so he stayed put. But inching his gaze upward to glance at his seemingly-immobile partner, John was shocked into silence for a moment to find those grey-tinged eyes fully open and gazing back at him. He thought about uttering a meaningless morning greeting, but then decided not to spoil the sweet silence, opting instead to press a kiss to the collarbone that was at eye level with him.

"You're awake." The statement was part redundant affirmation and part thankful greeting.

Now that John was conscious, Sherlock felt no guilt in slithering around him fully, legs tangled together and lean hands pressing insistent fingers into opposite shoulders in an embrace. His grip was tight, speaking all the words he couldn't or wouldn't conjure. "Don't know why you're surprised — I'm often up at ridiculous hours." This marked the second time he'd been overtly needy in less than twelve hours; hopefully John wouldn't be too alarmed by it. "I'd like to stay here for a bit, if that's all right with you."

"'Course," John replied into Sherlock's neck. He decided not to ask; there had been countless times — even before they were together — when John had walked into the room and seen Sherlock with a terrifyingly unreadable expression on his face. There had been countless times when John _knew_ there were things going through Sherlock's head that he had no hope of ever knowing, butthe'd known not to ask. And he didn't ask now. "I wasn't surprised," he said quietly. "Just...floored. You have the universe in your eyes."

Sherlock scoffed lightly and rolled his eyes. "I'm not sure how you've mistaken me for some misty-eyed preteen, John, but I assure you I am not and such platitudes are _not_ going to help you get laid." A smirk bent his face as he spoke, small but sincere. Inwardly, of course, the comment lit his gut with pleasant warmth — not necessarily because of the words themselves, but what it meant coming from John. He lightened his teasing with a soft peck to the tip of John's nose, pointed up towards him. Perhaps they'd talk seriously later, but this was precisely what Sherlock needed right now.John slitted his eyes at Sherlock's kiss and chuckled, pinking a little as he realised what he'd let slip.

"For the record, _you're_ the one who mentioned anything about getting laid. And I'm not some horny teen trying to get into your pants." As soon as he'd said it ,an image flashed through his head of a pubescent version of himself and a prepubescent Sherlock. Actually...with how he'd been...and Sherlock _was_ a few years younger... He snorted and shook his head, inching up to press a soft, undemanding kiss to his lover's sculpted lips. A rumble from below made him groan, and a small smirk spread across his face. "After _twice_ last night, I'm starving."

"You're not a teenager anymore, certainly, but I think the rest of the sentence is nonetheless accurate in describing you. Don't sell yourself short," he said, snickering. Sherlock grumbled, however, when John mentioned being hungry. He tightened his almost python-like grip around John further. "Please, love, just a little while longer?" he asked quietly, dodging John's gaze by burying his face between the pillow and the side of his lover's head. Mother was probably still as ill-prepared as Sherlock to see him again just yet, even though a couple hours had passed. Perhaps more than anything he'd like to be back at 221B again, but that would mean leaving the bed and, therefore, was of a lower priority at the moment. It was warm and safe and familiar here, just as it had been last night. With Sherlock nearly melded into him as he was, the little chuckle that escaped John sounded more like a gasp.

"Honestly, love, do you think I'm an animal? I do have my priorities, you know." He created three levels in the air from the bottom up with his hand. "It goes food, _then_ Sherlock, then sex," he elaborated sarcastically as his own little jab in retaliation for his partner's previous comment. This was good. This was easy. This was natural. So what was plaguing the great detective so that he was suddenly acting like a shy schoolboy hiding behind his mother...? Oh. Mother. Mother? He let his little theory go, coming to the conclusion that it wasn't his business until Sherlock decided so. He pressed a kiss to his pale temple and smiled. "A little while longer."

Sherlock made no comment on John's hierarchy of needs, too pleased at having won his prize. In all honesty, Sherlock could have used another round like last night at the moment, but since John didn't appear interested, he decided to let it go until they returned home. They could be as loud as they wanted then, after all.

"I imagine you slept well?" he asked, unable to keep a bit of mischief from his tone. Now that he considered it in the light of day, however, Sherlock was growing increasingly ashamed of his behaviour the previous night. He recoiled further. "I hope last night...wasn't too overbearing of me. I don't know what came over me."

John raised a quizzical eyebrow and leaned over to kiss the grimace off Sherlock's mouth.

"D'you think I'd let you be overbearing?" he countered. "Look, Sherlock, it was...intense, I'll grant you that. But it wasn't too much, it was...it...it was _hot_ , for Christ's sake!" And then, to cut off any chance at a witty retort or knowing smirk, he pressed forward again and shut his partner up in a longer, more drawn-out kiss. "Besides," John continued, glancing away in his own bout of shame. "I practically used you to masturbate, so. Guess we were both a little far out."

Rapid blinking was Sherlock's only response to John's explanation at first.

"Yes...I suppose that is essentially what you did," he said thoughtfully. "No need for shame in that, though. You've engaged in all kinds of debauchery with me, and this is when you finally access your sense of shame?" Mild chuckling accompanied his rebuke, but it died quickly. "I was referring, however, to what happened...after. That's what I meant by not knowing what came over me." God forbid it, but he'd been just this side of bursting into tears last night. No matter how much he loved and trusted and confided in John, _no one_ was allowed to see Sherlock Holmes cry. Ever.

John's mouth dropped open in realisation at that fact, because of _course_ Sherlock wouldn't be referring to the freakish and insanely filthy sex they'd had, but the mushy stuff afterward. When he had the awareness to close his mouth again, he cleared his throat in mild embarrassment and gave a tiny nod. "You...don't have to be sorry for being emotional, you know," he opened, voice gentle but not patronising. "I know you probably feel like you do, but you don't. You're human, as much as you loathe to admit it sometimes - during cases especially, with your lack of any reasonable eating or sleeping at all — but you are. I'd never mock you or make you feel inadequate for it. It's who you are — _what_ you are, obviously. And I don't know why you feel like you have to apologise for it, but I'm not going to accept that."

Up until now, when he'd wanted sex with John, he'd gotten it. But now, when he was reasonably sure John was still drained from the previous night and had other things on his mind, listening to his lover speak and reassure, Sherlock had never wanted him more. Because after all, sex wasn't so much a means to an end (that being orgasm) for Sherlock, but a  _tool_ to express himself where he was poor with words, and painfully overwhelmed as he was at the moment, he had no suitable outlet to speak his mind. A heretofore unknown level of frustration settled in, nowhere near being externalised, but very much present somewhere in a corner of his massive brain.  _Later_ , he told himself until it threatened to become a mantra. Hoping understatement and subtlety would get the point across, he said nothing and pressed a long, almost embarrassingly chaste kiss on John's exposed cheek. Screaming sentiment gathered in the base of his spine, making him shake a little.

"Okay," he said, knowing at least John would understand that.

There was something in Sherlock's voice that sounded a little too strange. John caught it, yet he wasn't sure if he should have — if Sherlock wanted him to. Asking him would be redundant because it was already obvious that something was up. Rather than trying to figure out what it was, like Sherlock might've, John chose the more direct option of taking his lover's face between two tanned hands and expanded upon the kiss from before, lining the other man's jaw with light pecks that became more pressurised as he moved down.

"Okay," Sherlock repeated, but it wasn't at all in the quiet, almost self-conscious tone of his partner. Sherlock had to suppress a shiver; whatever sympathetic intent John had had in each kiss, it was very much not helping him soothe his libido. Had he already figured it out? "Weren't you hungry, John?" he asked, trying to be passive despite every inch of him harbouring the desire to reciprocate and then some. But if he did, they would be a while, and then John would want to _talk_ and they didn't have time and Sherlock just didn't want to talk right now and _shit he's sucking on my pulse point oh Christ._

"Yes," John replied, not missing a beat and slathering his tongue along a pulsing vein in the side of Sherlock's neck. "Are you really suggesting we go get food _now?_ " he teased, nipping sharply but quickly enough so that he didn't leave a mark that was above the neckline. John wasn't nearly as capable of producing a sultry, growling voice as Sherlock was, but he'd had abundant experience in making his voice both low and subtly authoritative. "Wasn't it you who wanted to stay a little _longer?_ "

Sherlock's last straw broke with a whine; quick as lightning, he flipped them so John was on his back, kissing all the while. Will now crumbled, Sherlock went at John with utter abandon.

"Oh, love, you shouldn't have given me an inch. It'll be lunchtime before I let you go." Despite himself, he could feel all his buried sentiment — hurt, abandonment, confusion — burning in his eyeshe alleviated any potential concern in John that it was his fault by absolutely inundating him with his mouth. "Do whatever you want; just make it last, darling," he pleaded before slackening his pin on John's shoulders.

Wait, when had Sherlock suddenly taken things out of John's hands? Despite the fact that he'd had a comfortable handle on the situation this entire time, Sherlock had gone and flipped him on his back again — literally. But the pleading words were something of a curveball, and suddenly John's lower body temperature was a couple degrees past uncomfortable.

"Oh, love," he purred, voice just barely above a breath, "you shouldn't have given _me_ an inch." That was the only warning he gave before locking Sherlock in a four-limb trap and attacking his collarbone with bared teeth.

 

Frankly, the biting legitimately hurt, as he wasn't quite up to John's level of arousal. Nonetheless, Sherlock let himself go limp so John could have him as he wanted — he craved the submission from the previous night so much, it all but threatened to tear him asunder from the inside out. To just _stop_ , not feel so much as experience, be made to feel by someone else's design. John took Sherlock's cue and reasserted his position on top. Rather than follow along with his partner's savagery, Sherlock ran straining hands up his lover's back and murmured little bits of encouragement for John to continue, despite his own gentility.

 

"God help me, I need you," he breathed, "you're all I have, all I've ever had. Yours to remake as you see fit." He held John tight for a long moment, even as the man above him ravaged his skin, before letting him go and putting his arms up over his head in invitation.

 

A little start of surprise escaped him as he pulled back just in time to stare down at Sherlock, completely stretched and vulnerable, pale and just _waiting_ to be marked. He exhaled slowly, just slowly enough to gather a sharp enough focus to suck a hard kiss just underneath Sherlock's nipple.

 

"Mine," he breathed warmly against the peak of nerves, flesh hardening just enough to slip into his mouth. No teeth, not yet, just pressure., and a lot of it. As he increased the suction on the one, he slid his hand over to the other nipple and rolled his flat palm against it, and for the first time John grazed his hips against Sherlock's, a gentle touch compared to the onslaught above. "This is what you really want, you know," he murmured against the hot, raised flesh. He looked up, eyes glinting. "I see it, every time that wild look flashes through your eyes. Unravelled. Exposed. Waiting — _wanting_." Now, he added an edge of teeth around the flesh in his mouth. "It's fucking salacious."

Sherlock's back arched up into John's mouth and his hands fisted in the sheets.

"Yes," he groaned in one long syllable, "I want you, last night all over again, please. Pin me, hold me down until I scream." He squirmed under John — he was being given entirely too much room to move around. That was the exact opposite of what he wanted. Hips grazing his made him buck and whimper openly. "For Christ's sake, John, _please_ ," he belted, head thrown back and eyes slammed shut. His skin burned with arousal and friction and restrained sentiment, demanding satiation. For now, Sherlock concentrated on the point of vacuum on his chest, finding solace in its ruthless sensation. Admittedly, he wasn't 'playing' well with John, but he was growing desperate. Cracking his floodgates to show the other man had been the final breach of his reserve, and the only thing that would shut it up now was pure carnal mayhem. Tension built in his every limb as he tried to contain himself, but it wouldn't last long. "I can't...please, I don't want to move, or think, or _anything_ , John." The words were spat as if venomed, but still carried that hint of raw pleading to illustrate his predicament.

Ah. So this was what Sherlock really wanted. The rawness in his voice was enough to make John's head spin, and he was thankfully much too aroused to stop and allow himself to be concerned by it. Instead, he swore under his breath as he considered their options as compared with their lack of equipment. Another second and he was moving again, full on biting his way down Sherlock's torso and taking a big swipe of his tongue over each indentation. He couldn't do what he really wanted, but he'd be damned if he wasn't going to try to wreck the man anyway. It occurred to him that Sherlock was wearing entirely too much clothing and John slid off his pyjama bottoms and pants without a second thought, his own soon to follow. His partner needed him — literally — and John had dispensed with teasing and games. At one more desperate, impatient whimper, he looked up from his canvas of skin and his gaze silenced Sherlock, who remained quiet as he slunk up his body to settle against him.

"This," he breathed out huskily, continuing to slowly force himself down on Sherlock's lithe body to pin him in place ,and both of them had to heave their chests against eachother to breathe. "This was what you wanted. I should have guessed." As he spoke, John slid his hands Sherlock's extended arms above his head until his fingers found his lover's and intertwined, but didn't cease adding pressure until ten little red crescents formed in the skin on the backs of two pale hands. "Oh, love, what I would do to you right now..." John ran his eyes over Sherlock's flushed face, noting the wide eyes and slight huffing, and ducked down to steal a panting kiss before roughly shoving against him.

"It's fine you didn't know. I asked so much of you last night, and I didn't want to impose upon you again until we were home, but I couldn't wait," he murmured. "I know you can't have me entirely this way, but I'll make it up to you later, love." The pressure of John's body across the top of Sherlock's eased his desperation almost instantaneously; presence and warmth he craved on a base level were given to him without question. He tightened his grip along with his lover's. John's ribcage pressed into him with every one of his ragged breaths, the movement somehow more erotic to Sherlock than the thrusting below and making him leak pre-come all the harder between their sliding torsos. "Thank you," he panted, burying his face in John's neck. He tried edging up into John himself and was ecstatic to find he only managed a infinitesimal movement. "Tell me," he said, "tell me what you would do. Everything." He dropped his head back for John to ravage his neck as he pleased.

 _Ravage_ was quite the right word for it. At the moment, it was not practical, self-contained John who was present; this John was much more savage, possessive, and overwhelming, and it was this John who laid into Sherlock's neck ravenously. There was just so much _skin,_ he didn't know where to start and was entirely spurred on by the fact that he'd have time to get to all of it. The illusion of presentability shattered along with the collar boundary as John lined Sherlock's pale skin with the crimson marks of nips and radiating hues of pink from suction. Eventually Sherlock's words registered as they floated around in his head, and one in particular almost made him laugh at the thought of an interpretation of the night before as anybody 'imposing' on anybody. Images flashed through his head at an impressive speed, and stumbled while forming the words to describe all of them.

"All of you," he replied in an urgent whisper against Sherlock's jawbone. "I'd hold you down and spread you out and mark every inch of you. _Every_ inch. I wonder how the backs of your thighs would look painted with my love bites? Or the side of your ribcage, or your long, lean arms...you'd be a work of art, and every bit mine."

"T-that sounds rapturous, my love," Sherlock replied with a thick tongue impeded by arousal, "but...to do that you'd have to get up." He just managed to wedge his face into the side of John's and brush it with the top of his tongue. "Please don't get up," he whispered, "don't let go." In his weakened mental state, he recalled his time abroad, and nights where he'd been terrifyingly alone. How he'd all but prayed to have a moment like this with John even once before he died. Where he could be safe and give himself up without fear of the consequences or being watched. He'd stopped himself before he went too far, however — it was stupid to consider. He _had_ made it home and he _had_ John with him, now. This was all just sself-pitying distraction. "And when you _do_ do that to me sometime — because you will — I'll hardly be able to move the next day. You can spend it soothing and pampering me while you admire your work. Maybe-" he paused for a moment in a full-body shiver as John double-teamed him by grinding down and sucking at that sensitive part they'd discovered last night, "I'd manage t-to wank off and add a decorative flair of my own for you to clean off." Sherlock smirked at that — he would never quite understand _why_ John was so enamoured with his ejaculate, but it _was_ hot and he didn't question it.

The image summoned for John caused an immediate, almost violent reaction in him and he responded with a hard grind of his hips against Sherlock's. After that initial thrust, the friction was too intense to resist and he worked up a rough rhythm made slightly smoother by the slickness of the combined pre-come between them. Desiring so badly to latch onto that area just behind Sherlock's ear again, John contained himself and smushed their foreheads together in order to overwhelm the other more and see the elation in his lover's face.

"Perfect," he breathed against Sherock's mouth as he claimed it. Their mingled breath tasted of sweet lust. "That will be perfect. You'll look beautifully ravaged and I'll be the only one who ever gets to see you — _taste_ you." He punctuated the last two words with sharp thrusts, the friction between their bodies bordering on painfully hot.

John truly was unearthly when his lust fully took him, turned him into a cunning creature hell-bent on consuming Sherlock in his entirety. As John had taken his hands and wrists in near-crushing force, Sherlock snuck his legs out and locked them tight around John's hips. The small change made all the difference — now, his wanton prostration was complete. Open, yet bodily screaming for every last inch of his partner's presence. Even as his ankles were joined, he still spread his knees wide as he could.

"I'll be quite impressed to have been fucked so thoroughly I can't leave the house," he purred. He was privately impressed that, though they'd begun with Sherlock begging and pleading, he was now talking John up into a frenzy, reestablishing a semblance of dominance in a roundabout way. But that was what made his partner so perfect — he helped Sherlock rebuild himself when he was low. Let him fall apart and claw his way back to the top, all for John's enjoyment.

Though they were practically fighting for breath while their joined mouths and chests heaviedagainst each other, John couldn't help but grin wildly into what he could hardly even call a kiss anymore. It was more a possessive claim than anything, and yet John wasn't sure who was claiming whom. He supposed that was one of the best things about having Sherlock for a lover — there was no one dominant role. They were constantly blurring the lines, as both of them were and consequently neither of them. So even as he felt the dynamic shifting under him and Sherlock regaining a bit of power, he let it, because it felt just right. Squeezing the hands locked in his and stretching Sherlock's long arms to full capacity over his head, John let out a low sound, ducked his head further and dipped his tongue inside his lover's mouth as he pleased, rubbing them together in a way that might have been sensual in other contexts but was now clearly selfishly enjoyable. Sherlock whimpered up into John's mouth, chasing his tongue as he retreated to take another heaving breath. He'd been aiming to catch it in his teeth, but missed. He grunted with dissatisfaction at their parting, because after all, _breathing's boring._

" _Shit_ , why didn't we pack the lube? I...I  _need_  you-" he spat, John continuing to roll arhythmically into him. The pinning and weight was fantastic, but Sherlock wanted to be  _filled_ , as well. The desire only upped his desperation in their act at the moment; he was dangerously close to just telling John to take him as-is. Just as the night before, he was harder and thicker than he had ever remembered being before now — he attributed it mostly to the emotional peak he'd achieved. John came down on them both particularly hard following a thrust, legitimately pressing into his length enough until it was almost,  _almost_  painful. Instead it merely turned off the last of his rational thought and left him adrift in acute arousal. His head dropped back lazily as he spewed nonsensical syllables of what presumably was encouragement.

John had to shut his eyes and take a deep breath just to keep from coming right then. This was about _Sherlock_ , dammit, and he was supposed to be concentrating — "Jesus fuck-" _Focus_ "-ing Christ, Sherlock, you can't just _say_ \- nngh." He was flat-out panting now, which wasn't being helped by the general lack of oxygen. And yet, John couldn't bring himself to pull away to take a deep enough breath, because this was it and they were so close and he couldn't pull away _now_ _—_ "God, we are going to need a couple days when we get back—" A full-body shiver worked its way up from the base of his spine and alerted him to the intensity of his impending orgasm. Suddenly, amidst everything, he found himself cursing internally and frantically trying to work out why on earth they hadn't brought the lube...and then it occurred to him that he'd deliberately neglected to pack it under the ridiculous illusion that it would keep them from fucking in Sherlock's mother's house.  That was a laugh because they'd already had sex twice before this and what was he even thinking about anymore because all his thoughts began running together into one long, loud word of— "Sherlock," he managed to choke out into the crook of his as he came, and the syllables didn't come out nearly as piercing as he'd thought them but really, it was all fine, because the force of his climax was enough to make up for it.

John shook hard enough over him that he could feel it in every inch of him, which meant, of course, that he could feel it in the one place it counted. It was so hot and sticky and claustrophobic and John was  _right there_  at his ear and holding him so tight his hands were beginning to lose sensation— "J-" was all he managed before he jolted up into John, pinning his sputtering erection anew between them to add a searing peak to his climax, allowing him to break past the barrier of silent ecstasy to scream up at the ceiling. His hip joints creaked under his skin for the effort he was putting into mashing them together via his circled legs. When at last he began to slacken, he wiggled his hands free so he could claw at the back of John's head and hold him. They ached and stung with the static of being held too tight too long — his wrists were definitely going to bruise and he couldn't be happier for it. This session between them was likely the greatest workout they'd ever had together — their constant proximity and effort had left them both legitimately pouring with sweat, especially Sherlock, pinned as he was. The control he'd regained in the heat of their passion was swept out with the retreating tide of orgasm, leaving him shaking a little and holding John as if he would suddenly vaporise under the sunbeams streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. His panting breaths occasionally jolted with desperately repressed half-sobs as he tried to pull himself together.

John had never had to stop and take a moment just to reassure his partner that he was real, but then, he'd never had such intense, thoroughly satisfying sex before Sherlock, so he supposed it was only fitting. Sherlock was still holding him in a python grip and he wasn't complaining one bit about it, but the noises that were pouring half-muffled from the other man's mouth were more than enough to be worrying. John yanked himself out of the aimless current of orgasm with what could only be a soldier's discipline, and at once his face was above his partner's, slipping just a tad from all the accumulated sweat as he lifted up. It still felt as though his heart was beating like a hummingbird's and he was sure Sherlock's was the same, but at least they had calmed down somewhat and could focus on pulling oxygen back into their systems. All at once ,things became less hazy and Sherlock's features below him continued to sharpen as he pressed kisses to them, lips brushing away some of the dampness on the man's extremely flushed face. Sherlock was shaking, too, and as John continued kissing and began to wipe the rest of the moisture from Sherlock's cheeks with his fingers, he hovered just close enough to remind the other that he wasn't about to disappear.

John dotted kisses across his face in a flurry of palpable reassurance, and Sherlock couldn't feel more grateful. At length, Sherlock tugged at the back of John's head again so he could simply mash his face against the side of his partner's. There was so much he wanted to say, but even the solace sex brought couldn't loosen his tongue enough to speak. Frustration from not being able to articulate himself, as well as for the fact it was ruining his afterglow, put him in an ever-worsening spiral. Still, even as he sank, John remained his tether to keep him from going too deep, even if he must be tossed about by its upheaval.

"Sorry about breakfast," he finally said, voice rough. How was John able to stand this — Sherlock's dodging and willful ignorance and emotional handicap? Sherlock could barely stand it himself.

After all that — dinner, a fight, a reconciliation, and sex thrice within a twelve-hour period — Sherlock chose to say, 'Sorry about breakfast'. John had promised himself he wouldn't giggle at anything serious Sherlock had to say, but he almost burst out laughing. Only in the nick of time did he rein himself in enough to simply smile and let himself rest cheek-to-cheek with his mate.

"Do I get that for breakfast everyday?" he rasped. "Because I am _not_ sorry." He sifted gentle fingers up through damp, matted curls and just stroked through them. Their heart rates were calming down now — together, almost as if they were consciously trying to synchronize. He let himself just listen to them for a long silence. Finally, "I think I'm just about ready to go home."

Sherlock thought he would wholeheartedly agree, but was surprised to find a significant part of him reluctant to do so. The unfinished business between him and his mother and Mycroft itched to be resolved immediately, no matter how ridiculously impossible it was. And regarding all his new information about his _father_ , well...

"I..." Sherlock tried, but quickly fell silent. John's charming smile faded as he recognised Sherlock's expression. "I don't know what to do, John." Instantly, he regretted saying anything — he hadn't given proper context, or really any kind of information at all to explain it to John, and he still found himself unwilling to do so. He sighed heavily and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. When he opened them again, he stared fixedly at the ceiling and away from John. "What am I supposed to do now?"

"Well," John began slowly, "you could talk or you could act." When Sherlock shot him a sceptical look, he just raised his eyebrows. "Mum always said there were two kinds of people: those who talked and those who acted. I mean, in this situation, talking isn't necessarily the worse choice like it's implied. Well, maybe for you, but — look, you could either explain to me what's going on and ask for help, or do whatever it is you need to do with your family on your own." He paused, tilting his head so he could survey Sherlock, who was staunchly averting his gaze. "There's nothing you're 'supposed' to do. But, personally...I think you could do it without me." He said it matter-of-factly, not trying to hide the fact that the concept displeased him but also not hiding the pride in his voice at his partner's growth in his familial relationships.

Sherlock considered John's words for a long moment before finally lifting a still-sore hand to his partner's face. "I don't want to do anything without you anymore if I can help it."

He'd had enough of that for several lifetimes, just in the actions he'd taken in faking his death alone.

"Mother and I spoke this morning," he opened slowly, "and she reaffirmed directly to me much of the sentiment you spoke of. She...well, I haven't seen her that upset in years. That was fine. But...we talked about Father. Apparently, he..." He tightened his hand into a fist, "he left one of our homes to me in his will. For...for if I got married. Or when I retire. He and Mother...read your blog together." Again, spiteful sentiment arose within him, demanding justice and placation where none was to be found. He sighed heavily and let his face fall.

John left his right cheek against Sherlock's in order to afford him some illusion of privacy. The man might speak more freely if he knew John wasn't scrutinising his face. Still, the hand cupping his jaw was a reassuring anchor of connection between them, and John focused on the smoothness and warmth and weight of the contact as Sherlock related to him the story in halting sentences. At the mention of his own blog, he couldn't help the tiny quirk of his lips — his case posts weren't _that_ interesting, certainly not good enough to gain an aristocratic readership. The image of the Holmeses poring over a computer screen littered with his awestruck and breathless narrative was certainly ridiculous, but Sherlock seemed...angry about it. When his partner was finished speaking, John raised his head to finally just look at him. No analysis, just a visual.

"And what is it you'd like to resolve? Not your feelings, not just reactions or resentments. What is it you actually want to do?"

"That's precisely it, John, I don't _know_. Mother wants to reconnect — I can do that. I _want_ to do that. She...has a lot to offer us both. But Father...I don't know what to think, Much less do," he said, frustration rising. "He virtually puts me out on my arse at age 10, somehow magicallly decides to put it all past him and yet never tell _me_ about it. He...Mother alluded he may not have even cared about _us_ , and I just...I can't believe that, John. He never accepted a thing about me when I lived with him. What the fuck changed? Because it sure as hell wasn't enough to actually _inform_ me of any of these things. She gave me some rubbish about Father's self-loathing and not forgiving himself for what he did. _Bit late for that sentiment, don't you think?_ " Realising the extent of his temper tantrum, he rolled over onto his stomach and buried his face in his arms on top of a pillow. John propped his head up in his hand and watched Sherlock sink facedown into the pillow. He waited until the other man had completely settled into the mattress before answering his rhetorical question.

"Yes," he said. The response must have been unexpected, because it made Sherlock look up from his pillow after a beat. "Most definitely. I wouldn't blame you if you didn't forgive your father. I didn't." After another moment, he rolled back and stared up at the ceiling. "Sherlock, it's up to you, but in my opinion, it's too late to do anything about him. I might be biased because of how I feel about you, but...even so, I don't like it." He paused. "That doesn't mean you have to let it poison you for the rest of your life, though."

Sherlock buried his head again.

"I hate that. That it's too late. That I can't have an answer and have statistical confidence that it's true. Because what if all that _is_ true? That it was just because he was afraid of making us like him, and he was too prideful and ashamed of himself to do anything about it? I can _understand_ that," he said, voice growing increasingly emotional, "even if it makes him a terrible father, I can forgive that. Which, in turn, infuriates me. Because _if_ that's all true, it's on me, too. Because _I_ never tried, either." He brought his hands over his head and tightened in his hair. "Not to mention the fact I can't stand it that I can appreciate and sympathise with that perspective." He sighed heavily. "But I am doomed to live in doubt, though I suppose getting a house out of it isn't a total travesty. So I reiterate, I don't know what to do."

John listened attentively, keeping still and watching the sunbeams play off the hundreds of tiny imperfections in the paved ceiling.

"You sort of have to let the doubt be your penance, because you're right, there's nothing you can do about him. That's both of your consequence, only he doesn't have to live it out." He winced at his own blunt choice of words and turned his head away, staring at the wall. "But...your chance isn't completely gone. You have a choice — your mother's begging for it. What you _can_ do is take the chance to learn to become a better man than he was, which sounds like something he would have wanted. He already _was_ proud of you; that's already clear."

John's finishing sentence made Sherlock flinch openly.

"I...can't wrap my head around that. I would  _like_  to be pleased about it, but I..." He looked up from the pillow to see long enough to reach tentatively for John's hand. "I'm furious I never recognised it. Me, John, not being able to realise something for myself. You can imagine how agonising it is for someone like me. It..." He plopped his face back into the pillow. "Hurts," he finished, muffled by the down and fabric obscuring his face. "I don't want to feel like this the rest of my life. I'm incredibly exhausted of feeling like an utter failure." John was right, though. He  _did_  have Mother. He could still fix that as a reparation for both himself and Father, perhaps. Somehow. It all felt unreachable from where he stood now.

John scraped his teeth along his bottom lip. The warmth of Sherlock's hand in his was reassuring, but the fact that he'd reached out for it was still slightly concerning. He looked over.

"Maybe...you might not have recognised it because of your emotional conflict. You _are_ an investigator, of some sort or another, yes? Call it a conflict of interest. Emotions can get in the way. They can muddle a person's judgment, as I _know_ you know. Plus...you hadn't spoken to him properly in years. And yeah, that's a bad thing, but it also makes sense, because how _could_ you know what he thought? It wasn't as though he called you up and weighed in on the matter." John sighed and raised Sherlock's hand to press a kiss to the back of it. "Take it from me. No matter what you may feel, you're definitely not a failure."

Sherlock nodded into the pillow.

"All excellent points. Logical. It's simply difficult to...suss all that out when I'm compromised." He tightened his grip on John's hand and turned his head to address John semi-directly. "How...how did you manage, if you never forgave your father? What did you do before he died? What do you do _now_?" he asked very quietly. Their circumstances were vastly different, but the core issue remained true. John had had complete absolution in dealing with his father the way he did; Sherlock would only to some extent. In his mind, at least. After all, his father had never raised a hand against him. Getting John's perspective, however, would help him in deciding his own path. John represented an extreme he could choose to pass over if he wanted, and that would be immensely helpful. John was glad that Sherlock hadn't glanced directly over at him, because in that moment he grimaced involuntarily. It was another long silence before he finally sorted out the right words to respond.

"My father...I don't..." He cleared his throat. Obviously he hadn't taken enough time to sort his words. "I didn't forgive him, no. He wasn't the kind of guy whose personality you could salvage any part of," he opened bitterly, then straightened his tone out. "But in the end, I guess...it just wasn't worth it. There was nothing I could do, even if I'd wanted to, so...I just didn't want it to ruin the rest of my life. I haven't _forgiven_ him, necessarily, but I don't hate him anymore. I have better things to spend energy on in my life."

Sherlock shimmied over so he could slip an arm fully around John's shoulders in an extra show of sympathy. As he considered John's words, he came to a few conclusions: unlike John's father, his did indeed have some kind of salvageable appreciation of his personality; father had indeed made a posthumous attempt at reconciliation that, though it couldn't be physically followed through, symbolised the inherent worth in the attempt; despite his father's death, he  _could_  still rectify his relationships with Mother and Mycroft; Sherlock did indeed have better things to expend energy on in his own life. Places and people who wanted and needed him right now. Sherlock _was_  angry and upset and bitter, but nothing to the extent John was towards his own father — he could tell in the way John spoke and his overall demeanour. He didn't think his sentiment fulfilled the requirements John's perspective provided as an extreme. So, then, it would be petty to abandon forgiveness. And while Sherlock certainly wasn't above being petty now and again, that was usually in knee-jerk reaction; this was a conscious, logical train of thought that overrode raw reaction, and ignoring it made him the smaller man. If nothing else, Sherlock would never allow himself to be the weaker, smaller, or otherwise secondary personality in  _any_  exchange, including this one. He could feel the proverbial ground solidifying under him.

"That helps a lot, John," he said, rubbing his partner's back. "Thank you. And I'm sorry."

Sherlock's hand sliding along his back and quiet voice in his ear were enough to pull John back from a dangerous spiral of thoughts about his father. Not now. Optimistically, he'd have liked to think never, but John had long since shut away that sort of positive thinking. It hadn't helped much in overcoming his own resentments and poisonous feelings. He knew he'd likely be fighting the demons his father had brought for the rest of his life, but the man himself, at least, wasn't a source of hatred anymore.

"It's okay. I mean — it's not, but it is." A corner of his mouth twitched up involuntarily at his own vagueness, and he turned to look at his partner. He pressed a light kiss to the corner of Sherlock's defined mouth. "I'm sure you can appreciate that."

"That I can, my love," he replied quietly. A stubborn part of him still balked at his increasing familiarity in using these pet names with John, but more than the minute amount of pleasure he'd let himself have in doing it, he felt far more that his partner simply needed to hear it, especially at times like this. John helped Sherlock stay on an even keel in so many ways; it was only fair to do as much as he could in return, as well. However poor he was at it — he always _had_ been a magnet for chaos. He ran a slow hand over John's head and kissed his brow before sitting up.

"I believe I've kept you from something important," he said, rubbing John's exposed calf. "Come on. Can't have you whining the whole way home about how hungry you are. I get enough of that from you on a case." He stood and offered a hand to John. A quick, shared shower and a few minutes to make themselves presentable would be all that was required. Eat, talk a bit more with Mother and Mycroft, and then home. Blessedly quiet, undramatic home.

 


	24. Chapter 24

John let out a half-chuckle and nudged Sherlock with his shoulder before sitting up. He felt...sticky. Indescribably so. What with the semen and sweat sticking to his body, he was ready to scrub himself of all the stress and anxiety they'd shed within the last twelve hours. "I don't whine," he grumbled half under his breath. "Well, come on, then. I'm pretty sure we sweated out a third of our weight with that last session." He yawned for the first time that morning, arching back in a stretch before standing on slightly wobbly legs. A confused expression slid slowly over his features before he finally turned to Sherlock, reaching over and tugging on a hand.

"Er, where's the loo?"

Sherlock blinked back, nonplussed.

"Ah. Suppose you wouldn't know." He picked up their bag and tugged him over to the far wall. Seemingly flush wood paneling had a small bronze doorknob attached to it. Sherlock opened it into a modestly-sized yet lavish bathroom. "Here," he said, smiling at John's gaping surprise. He led John to a glass cubicle with stone tiling in the corner. After getting the water to a decent temperature and fishing out the requisite materials, John went in first and Sherlock closed the door behind them. Soon as he joined his partner under the water, he bent down for a deep, loving kiss as a last show of appreciation.

John leaned up into the kiss and inhaled deeply, tilting his head. Times like these – when he could lose himself in Sherlock – were perhaps one of his favourite things about their relationship. The totality of his wonder as an individual was frequently a haven John had the luxury of retreating to and being enveloped in, and now he was utilizing that relieving quality to the fullest. The water slid over their joined heads and down their backs, beginning to wash away the mess between their stomachs as it ran between them. John was primarily a man of comfort and truth be told, the call of home had never sounded more compelling.

When they finally parted, the usual light in Sherlock eyes that had been so trampled the past few days seemed truly rekindled.

"Almost done," he said, "you only need suffer your in-laws just a little while longer." He smoothed the backs of his fingers down John's tiny bit of paunch for a moment before he turned to snatch up his shampoo. As he scrubbed at his head, he became contemplative. "Perhaps...we _can_ make ourselves available to Mother for Christmastime."

Tentative as everything was with his family, Sherlock found that it also offered the opportunity for John to not have to visit his sister and spend the holiday fretting over her. That would be nice for both of them as a first Christmas. He imagined the two of them in one of the parlours with a fireplace, sitting together with mulled wine and watching the snow fall on the grounds. Once again, disgustingly sappy and domestic, but Sherlock found himself essentially lusting for it all the same.

When Sherlock pulled back to begin scrubbing, John grabbed the body wash and began rubbing it over both their bodies. As he did so, he took a moment to glance up and memorise Sherlock's face like this – calm, relaxed, light. It wouldn't always be like this, he knew. That face could crack so easily. Only John could really see it when it happened, and it always produced a knot in his stomach when he saw those fissures form around Sherlock's beautiful mouth and eyes. It could happen anywhere, at any time; sometimes it was bending over a body in the morgue, sometimes over dinner that Sherlock never ate, sometimes just during a simple conversation about who should do the shopping. John would see the tiny little cracks in the facade of the Great Sherlock Holmes, the gaps where Just Sherlock peeked through. John wasn't quite certain what would cause it but one thing was for sure: there was something unpleasant racing through that brilliant mind of his. Now, however, it was Just Sherlock standing there, complacently scrubbing at his head, and John thought he'd never loved him more.

Taking just long enough to rinse his hair, he tilted his sodden head at John in confusion.

"John? Are you listening?" He caught the man in question with a giddy expression on his face, looking down and away, as if shy. "What're you on about?" he asked with a slightly self-conscious chuckle, and tilted John's head back up with a hand under the chin. His eyes narrowed in brief but thorough analysis.

_Wide, bright eyes. The little smile he only makes when he's content. No stress in his face – or body, really – at all. Expression...exasperated but lovingly so. As if he doesn't know what to do with himself._

Sherlock straightened and returned an easy smile.

"I love you, too." Grinning victoriously, he turned so John could soap his back as well.

John just set his slightly agape jaw stubbornly and wordlessly pushed the heel of his hand into Sherlock's back, rubbing the wash into his alabaster skin. A moment of silent recall and he put sense to the sounds he'd just registered as words a few seconds before.

"Mm, Christmastime sounds good. Nice change from Harry's dumpy flat. Bit depressing there, actually. Besides, here we'd have all the room we wanted and you could show me other places." His work finished, John stepped back and watched the spray spread down Sherlock's back and placed a kiss between the middle of his shoulders before grabbing shampoo for himself and sudsing up his short hair. "Would we get gifts for Mycroft and your mother?...What _would_ we get for Mycroft and your mother?"

"Neither Mother nor Mycroft have actual need of anything," Sherlock explained as he spun John about to wash his back. "Anything we got for them would be purely out of sentiment, and, well...you know my family. Besides, Mycroft's sense of Christmas spirit is worse than mine. I think he may have actually written Santa explicitly for coal voluntarily when he was a child." He dug his thumbs a bit into John's shoulders in an impromptu massage. "In short, Mother would ask nothing from us besides our company. And Mycroft is just a scrooge. That blue scarf I own was the first gift I had received from him in six years, and though it was presented as a Christmas present, he gave it to me two weeks after my birthday. I don't know if he even _remembers_ it's in January." His tone was surprisingly light, almost teasing. Shoulders soothed, he dropped to the small of his lover's back and continued there, swaths of soap spreading in circles as he did so. Eyelids drooped automatically and John leant back into his partner's touch.

"I didn't so much expect it from Mycroft as -- _mmph_ , there," he directed in a soft voice that nonetheless was made sonorous as it bounced off the glass and tiles. John stretched his back as Sherlock's long, kneading fingers worked a kink out of it. "Well, I know what we can expect from my family -- a bottle of pretty good wine from Harry and something knitted from Mum. Hardly a surprise. Guess I'll just have to think of something to make up for it, eh?"

"We can certainly see Harry after Christmas. New Year's, perhaps," he suggested. "And however you want to proceed with your mother is fine. You want me to come, I will. You don't, I won't." At last, he cupped John's arse. He pulled up on it and squeezed a bit, soap making his hands slide a bit.

"Never did understand the appeal of people's backsides until I met you," he said lightly. John's curious fingers wandered their way into the crevice between, just as a tease. "Yours is a nice balance. Unassuming like the rest of you, but plenty of substance to hang onto when necessary." He pressed in just a tad with a finger. "Or just because I want to," he purred before backing off and setting his chin on John's shoulder in mock innocence.

Where John had opened his mouth to speak, his voice immediately stopped up in a tiny choking sound. He'd been preparing to talk about his _mother_ , and then Sherlock – and his fingers – John shuddered and managed a tiny, glaring smirk over his shoulder.

"Hands off, you," he grumbled, a touch of regret in his voice. "I want my breakfast before it's entirely too late and you're stuck with my _whining_ all the way home." He smirked and kissed Sherlock then, pulling up a little on the other man's bottom lip with his teeth in a light promise of what was to come. "As for my mother," he continued, veering back to his original train of thought, "she's been wanting to meet you for ages. Loves when I tell her about the cases. We'll see if she's well enough for holiday company." With the both of them clean, John reached up and turned off the shower head. He poked his head out of the glass stall, locating the towels stacked neatly nearby and grabbing a couple for the two of them.

"All right, then, I'll plan on it. We'll discuss it further when the time is appropriate. December's still quite a ways off." Sherlock remained for a few moments after John stepped out in order to shake his hair of at least some of the water trapped within. He dried himself off quickly enough and strode back into the bedroom, rubbing viciously at his head with the towel. John followed, but paused at the foot of the bed. Sherlock followed his eyes down to the blue dress shirt from the previous night, beaten and stained where it had been abandoned on the floor. He'd just caught John subconsciously licking his lower lip when Sherlock looked back up at him. He sidled over to stand behind John and wrapped him in his towel from behind as he bent down to nibble a bit at the crook of John's neck. "I'm rather proud of that," he growled, "a part of me wants to keep it."

The breath caught in John's throat and he tilted his head in a subconscious move to offer more skin. Sherlock's teeth brushing against his neck made him shiver in his towel. "So keep it," he replied coyly. "We both know you're just going to buy me a new dress shirt to ruin all over again. This way you can remember more vividly what I looked like in it when I'm not around." He raised his head then, turning quickly to catch Sherlock's mouth in a long, smirking kiss. "C'mon, let's get dressed," he urged when they finally pulled away. "The sooner we get on with it, the sooner we can get home."

Sherlock hummed his satisfaction in being able to keep the shirt – not that he'd permit John to be away for any extended amount of time without him if he could help it.

"Yes, right. Even I'm rather hungry, now." Anxiety mostly burned off, his appetite had come back in a heavy rush, egged on by no dinner yesterday and three energetic rounds of sex. He extricated a new shirt and pair of pants and dressed quickly. He returned to the bathroom just long enough to wrestle his damp curls into a semblance of order. John readied just as quickly and was waiting for Sherlock at the door to the hall when he reappeared. Taking John's hand, he kissed the back of it. "Speaking of the shirt...blue again, or something different?" he asked as they left the guest room and headed for the dining hall again.

John smiled to himself and gave a little squeeze as they strolled hand in hand down the hall.

"Doesn't matter to me." He smirked over at Sherlock and gave a quick wink. "You seemed to like the blue one on me." As they rounded the hall into the dining room, Mycroft looked up from his seat at the table where he was idly flipping through the morning paper. He gave one quick nod of acknowledgement before returning his eyes to the text in his hands. John's stomach growled audibly as he looked over at the table spread out with usual breakfast food. He tugged on Sherlock's hand, leading him over to a couple seats across from Mycroft and took his place. "Can we just...take anything, then?"

"No, John, you have to eat the tack and gruel we give the servants," Sherlock replied with a smirk and eye roll as he sat down. Mycroft caught his eye and purposefully focussed on the red mark on Sherlock's neck just visible over his shirt collar, and gave a long-suffering sigh. Sherlock had begun acquiring himself a bit of rashers when Miriam entered as well. The only outward show from either of them was a slight hesitation from Sherlock's hand and a faltering step from Miriam. Neither appeared lost on Mycroft, however. He gave her a reserved but inviting look, so she glided over towards their pair of chairs.

_Better?_

A nod from Sherlock, and a slight tilt of the head down in apology. She smiled minutely.

 _It's fine_.

Then, a tentative hand brushed his curls and made his heart stop. It stayed only a moment before she walked away and took her seat.

"You slept well, John? Even with our accommodations, sleeping somewhere unfamiliar can be uncomfortable, no matter the effort taken." Sherlock remained staring at his plate in unbridled shock.

John was no stranger to Holmesian dialogue through body language and gestures, but if he'd caught any of the silent conversation in front of him, he made no outward show of it. He smiled cheerily up at Miriam.

"It was just fine, thanks," he replied, despite the knowledge that she likely saw everything in the tactless marks on Sherlock's neck. John glanced over the display of food, before selecting a plain muffin from a plate in front of him. He prepared it with butter and a dash of jam, then took a satisfied bite. When he'd swallowed, he comfortably reached over to pour himself a glass of water, carefully keeping his eyes down to avoid seeing any side glances or subconscious expressions of emotion he wasn't meant to see. Miriam smiled approvingly; Sherlock made the mistake of catching her eyes again, whereupon she merely gave him an amused, raised eyebrow. He went scarlet and helped himself to toast. Miriam turned to her elder son.

"I assume you're to head back to the city, then?" she asked. "I might stay a night longer before returning to the cottage, if that's fine with you." For the first time in a long time, she wanted to spend a spare bit of time here, and now was as good a time as any. Go through some things, perhaps reminisce.

"Yes, I anticipate leaving after breakfast," he remarked, diverting back to the benign subject of his departure plans. "There are affairs that need tending to and meetings this very day in which I must be present. I can, however, set out a car for you," -- he turned to look at the couple across from him – "and for the pair of you." 

Speaking of... "John, dear. Your request..." Virgil had materialised from nowhere, holding what appeared to be a shoebox, and set it on the table next to him. Sherlock leant over the table surreptitiously to look at it, and his pupils shrunk.

"That's..." Well, John _had_ seemed inexplicably interested in his drawing hobby – he just hadn't expected Mother had actually _kept_ them all. "Yes, it is," she said, and held her son's eyes a long moment.

John's shoulders tensed for a moment as he quite suddenly remembered his request. He hadn't exactly mentioned to Sherlock that he'd wanted to see the man's earlier work, and probably should have...especially considering Sherlock had never mentioned his hobby to John, which might have indicated that he didn't _want_ John to see it. "Yeah," he piped up, then cleared his throat and slid the shoebox a tiny bit closer to himself.

Sherlock gave John a reassuring, passive shrug in regard to the box before going back to eating. Mildly embarrassing for the fact his work as a child was rudimentary, but otherwise it was fine. It wasn't intended to be some big secret – Sherlock just didn't think much of it and didn't indulge often.

"John and I intend to do much the same after this. And whilst I have you here, Mycroft – Lestrade has been pestering me for a final report on John's kidnapping. Redact what you must, but apparently his superiors want it. I suppose they would, given the collateral damage," he murmured satisfactorily. Miriam remained unfazed by the discussion – perhaps even a tiny bit pleased, in fact.

Mycroft sniffed once in irritation, then picked up his still-steaming coffee cup and sipped politely. "Ah, yes. I knew I was forgetting something – I shall contact him right away. Was meaning to anyway about a bombing in Doncaster..." The pitch of his voice trailed off, but his lips kept moving, mumbling silently to himself as he went over the list of things that 'needed tending to' in his head.

John looked up from a mouthful of muffin, glancing at Miriam, but she seemed entirely unconcerned. The ordeal of the kidnapping hadn't really been talked about at all with her beyond the shallow details, he presumed, and he could only guess at what she knew. Likely Sherlock's relapse hadn't been mentioned at all, but then if she was astute as she seemed, Miriam hardly needed many of these things explained to her.

Miriam met John's questioning gaze placidly. He was already so concerned, so invested in her perspective. It was sweet, and entirely refreshing. Sherlock's words earlier gave her a considerable amount of pause, however. The haunted look she'd mentioned earlier was still very much there, hidden well but still evident in his demeanour. Mention of the kidnapping in his presence netted not even a batted eye from him, which bespoke of far, far worse circumstances. Her natural mothering instinct was, of course, triggered by the realisation, but John was hardly a man comfortable with coddling. It would have to be given subtly and in small doses to start. Sherlock was giving her an opportunity, and she had little intention of wasting it.

"So what are you two going to do now? Back to work?" she asked.

Sherlock straightened a bit in his chair. "We're going on holiday in two weeks. Amsterdam. John's choice."

Her eyes lit up. "Oh, lovely! Excellent choice. I think you'll enjoy yourself. It sounds like you've rather earned some time abroad lately. I could see about a private charter for you instead, if you like. Get you out there a bit sooner," she offered. Sherlock gave a minute shake of the head when John wasn't looking.

At the suggestion which was perfectly unassuming and generous, John still barely refrained from letting his expression falter. He shifted a tad in his chair, only enough for Sherlock and perhaps Mycroft to see, really, and looked up carefully, fixing Miriam with a cautious but not heavy gaze.

"Actually, that's all right. I had a few things planned for beforehand that can't really be moved, but it was very kind of you to offer." The corners of his mouth curved up in a small but genuine smile and he took a careful drink from his glass of water. "I'm very much looking forward to Amsterdam. Never been, but I've seen photographs and it looks just breathtaking. Never been out of the country much at all, actually – except a couple places here and there like, you know, Afghanistan." Once he'd said it, he wished he could stuff the words back into his mouth because he absolutely did _no_ t want to talk about this, and because he could not, in fact, take back his words, he leaned forward and tried to wash them down with another long gulp of water. 

Miriam measured both her sons' as well as John's reactions at the speed of light. Forbidden territory. A misstep, but recoverable. Her smile took on a respectful, motherly tone and she nodded.

"It was a thought. And certainly keep it in mind for the future, dear. At any rate, I think you'll find Amsterdam far preferable to the desert," she said lightly, and left it at that.  Sherlock's shoulders relaxed noticeably and he shot her a quick but grateful nod. "I'd like to think it will be the start of a trend," Sherlock added, "getting John out of Britain every once and again to experience something outside the day-to-day monotony." John was relaxing, too. Good. The next two weeks weren't going to improve; no need to rush the situation.

Miriam tittered a bit. "I'd hardly call what you do _monotonous_ , son."

Sherlock cracked a smirk.

John snorted before he could censor his reaction to something more appropriate for an aristocratic brunch. He quickly turned it into a clearing of the throat.

"No, definitely not. You wouldn't be doing it if it was." Under the table, his hand slipped atop Sherlock's knee closest to him and he gave a small squeeze of gratitude. "But that's right, we were thinking of traveling a bit. Nothing terribly strenuous, of course," he added for Miriam's peace of mind, though there was a twinkle in his eye as he glanced back at Sherlock. "I'm sure we'll be taking you up on your generous offer soon enough."

Sherlock nodded his agreement.

"Yes, a charter would certainly be a lot easier to utilise in the future. Our working schedule is somewhat erratic, and makes it difficult to plan commercial flights ahead of time...thank you."

Miriam gave a gracious nod and returned her attention to eating. Sherlock put his hand over John's and rested it there in a further show of reassurance.

"The family as well has a number of personal accommodations sprinkled about the EU if you'd prefer something more private." Miriam added one beat of a pause and a tiny smile in between the last two words, just enough to get her point across. Virgil had been by their room earlier to inquire after any needs, and his rapid return to Miriam's side, as well as his flushed, panicked face illustrated his plight very efficiently. Both men on her left gained a vibrant new shade of red in their faces, and Mycroft legitimately smirked his approval of the tease.

John straightened immediately in his chair and stared at the glass of water on the table in front of him as if it were the most entrancing thing in the world. With Sherlock, of course, all traces of reticence had since vanished with the arrival of healthy doses of sex, but with others, John was still as self-conscious as ever. _Especially_ with someone like his mother-in-law. He adjusted his collar with one hand and tightened his grip in Sherlock's on the table with the other, chuckling nervously.

"That'd be lovely of you," he replied as casually as possible, as if Miriam hadn't just offered him places to shag her son in various countries. Across the table, Mycroft was almost trying to hide his satisfaction, and John would have glared if he wasn't completely sure he was still beet red and the action wouldn't be nearly as effective.

Sherlock, too, remained flushed, but his eyes narrowed in playful challenge, especially with Mycroft watching.

"We're ecstatic you're willing to subsidise and accommodate our relationship right down to our sex life, Mother," he said, earning a choking noise from John. "I mean that wholeheartedly."

Miriam's mild expression broke into a suppressed smile and a few giggles escaped her in spite of herself. They shared a brief look over the table before Sherlock broke it to recoup the rest of his pride. He noted a theatrical eye roll from Mycroft, but he otherwise didn't immediately interrupt their odd but nonetheless poignant moment.

From his inconspicuous place at the table next to Sherlock, John looked down at his plate and smiled. The Holmes family dynamic was such that small talk was strained and awkward, yet conversations about one's sex life were easy and even playful. He was quickly learning that it wasn't just that they were The Aristocracy. The Holmeses were different even amongst their own, and honestly, he was glad for that because their uniqueness was what he was sure he liked about them.

The eye roll from Mycroft was accompanied by the tiniest of long-suffering sighs. He smoothed out the front of his suit jacket out of habit and turned his head to regard his mother.

"I fear I must be going soon," he noted, and it was then that John realised that he himself was the only one at the table even eating anything. Figured.

Miriam nodded her acknowledgement.

"I would hope you'd be back in the evening so we can properly visit," she suggested lightly. She hadn't had much time with her elder son at all the past two days, what with preparations for Sherlock and just her son's usual busy schedule. Her wishes towards Sherlock were just as true for Mycroft, as well – just to be closer, a little more familiar.

"If you have some trivial matter 'of national importance' to dump on me, please do so soon. I won't be available starting the next week," Sherlock also joined in. He saw John turn to look at him out of the corner of his eye, but he ignored it. "Otherwise, do try to keep your usual nagging to a minimum." He held Mycroft's eyes for a long moment before finally returning to his barely touched food.

Mycroft arched a thin eyebrow but otherwise shook his head minutely at his younger brother.

"No, it seems that for the moment, matters are neither trivial nor so important as to warrant your attention," he replied in a smooth voice, reaching forward to take hold of his glass of water for the first time in the entire meal.

Towards Miriam, however, his usual countenance of reserved smugness faltered, broken for the briefest of moments by a streak of softness around the lines of his mouth and eyes as his gaze darted to her in mild surprise. He inclined his head in a small nod.

"Yes, I would enjoy that." The softness lingered, as did his gaze, until he seemed to snap back to himself and straightened from his chair. "Well. It has certainly been...refreshing. I look forward to the next gathering, but for the time being, I bid you all adieu." He gave a curt nod and was almost turned to go when he was caught in a light, surprising hug by his mother, who'd risen out of her seat. He blinked and looked suddenly truly unsure of himself for perhaps the first time ever – in front of his family, at least. He managed a smile and gave one more nod to all of them before disappearing out the door, followed by Virgil, who was to accompany him to his car. 

For the second time in one morning, Sherlock distinctly felt as though he needed to pick his jaw up off the floor. Nowhere in his near-eidetic memory could he recall seeing Mycroft embraced with such enthusiasm. He stowed it quickly as the two parted, however, and Miriam reclaimed her seat. She considered her still-endless questions milling about in her mind before settling for the most obvious one. Given his closeness with John, it was almost certain Sherlock had brought him up to speed on the early morning, and even if he didn't have all the details, there was little risk in inquiringly after it circuitously.

"It seems you are...better, Sherlock," she offered carefully.

Grey-blue eyes snapped over to her instantly, measuring. "Yes, I suppose so. I...apologise for my behaviour."

Miriam merely shook her head dismissively in response. "I assume you'll be departing as well rather quickly?" Sherlock turned to John for input.

When suddenly both pairs of blue-grey eyes were on him, John straightened in his chair and his eyes widened. "Ah, well, you know, after breakfast." He knew she wanted them to stay a bit longer, but the selfish nagging voice inside reminded him that there was really no other place he'd rather be than back home at Baker Street. So, as a compromise, he left the time frame a bit ambiguous. Picking up a biscuit from a basket in front of him, he took a large bite of it – the Holmeses may not have been much of eaters, but he certainly was, and was comfortable enough not holding back from indulging himself. 

Miriam returned a small, warm smile.

“John, you needn't be so diplomatic. It's fine. This has been trying for each of us. I think Sherlock, at least, is eager to return to some semblance of normalcy." She turned to regard her remaining son, but found him with a distant expression, hands folded before his face. As she began to inquire after his sudden thoughtfulness, he roused himself.

"I forgive you."

Rapid blinking and dead silence followed his announcement. As ever, Sherlock's good intentions were dimmed (or perhaps in this situation, painfully emphasised) by his near-complete absence of tact. Nonetheless he carried on, seemingly oblivious to the bombshell nature of what he'd just said.

"And furthermore, though it will take some time for me to fully appreciate, I think I can forgive Father, too. In some capacity."

And though Sherlock had technically shared his merciful sentiment towards Miriam earlier in the parlour, it certainly hadn't been so incredibly direct. And with the addition of his father, it was too much. Miriam held together for perhaps two or three seconds before she burst into tears. Sherlock finally registered the impact of his words and was on his feet and at her side instantly, giving John a panicked look.

Of course, John hadn't expected anything less from Sherlock than blunt shock factor, but combined with Miriam's reaction, the entire thing was overwhelming even for him, who hadn't even been directly involved. However long he'd have liked to take to let the words sink in, his triage mindset kicked in and told him that crying women came first. He was at Miriam's other side a half second after Sherlock looked over at him, setting a solid hand on a delicate, trembling shoulder. Swiftly scooping up the unused cloth napkin at her place in front of her, John wordlessly handed it to her to use it as a handkerchief. He remained silent and merely glanced up at his stricken partner, hoping to convey in his gaze that Sherlock should trust John was able to sympathise and empathise with people enough to understand what Miriam needed, and that was a comforting presence and a moment to calm down. 

Normally Sherlock would have been all too happy to pass on the emotional heavy lifting to John; that was how it worked when speaking with victims' families on cases, or between them, or with their few friends. Here, however, he felt an inexplicable responsibility for it, and while he definitely needed help, he didn't want to just pass it off, either.

"I...I'm sorry, Mother. I didn't intend to upset you," he tried quietly.

She looked up from her napkin, sparing a glance at each man beside her.

"No, you silly boy, don't say anything of the sort," she replied, turning in her seat to embrace her son enthusiastically, if a bit clumsily. Sherlock accepted it, but still shot John another panicked look from over her shoulder. 

This time, when Sherlock looked at him, John broadly smiled and gave one encouraging nod to relieve panic and demonstrate that this was, in fact, a good thing. He left a hand on Miriam's shoulder, though it rested much lighter there now that he knew it wasn't needed for anchorage. Privately, he marvelled at how he had come to be in the midst of such family drama – or, he hoped, perhaps it was the _end_ of, if not all, then a large part of it. There was no way he could have instigated this monumental step in a relationship such as theirs, so he chalked it up to the cosmos that he was able to witness such a reconciliation. One he'd never been able to have, not even posthumously like Sherlock. The thought made his smile waver for a moment. Just a moment. 

As should ever be expected, Sherlock caught John's faltering expression. So, even as he embraced his mother, he slipped a surreptitious hand out to just brush John's lower lip affectionately, as well as shook his head minutely. His hand quickly retreated as Miriam pulled away. She cupped her son's face in her hands.

"No need to apologise. I simply never expected..." – she put a hand to her face briefly to recoup – "something like this so soon, and certainly not so bluntly."

Sherlock shrugged in nonchalance.

"It is a waste of time to continue being angry with you. And as far as Father, I said that might take some time on my part. I compared John's--" he cut himself off and started over, "John's opinion on the matter when we spoke about it. He offered...a different perspective for me to consider," he finished, casting a brief apology over Miriam's shoulder at John with his eyes. "Conceptually, I understand the circumstances of my relationship with Father could have been worse, and a posthumous olive branch is better than none at all. It's just...accepting it."

Miriam nodded slowly, continued morbid curiosity swirling in her mind over John's "perspective", but she didn't let it manifest in her expression.

"You always have been decisive. Family trait," she said with a watery chuckle. "Thank you, Sherlock." She smoothed a few fingertips over a pale cheekbone and fiddled aimlessly with a stray curl. Once she'd had her fill of fussing – she turned again to John – still crouching behind her. "And you, John. I will never be able to thank you enough."

Once her eyes had alighted on him, his own averted to the floor with a humble smile.

"This is what comes naturally to me, so." He shrugged, indicating the space between them. "But I'm just glad to be here." He looked up, holding her gaze with simple sincerity, the corners of his mouth curling up. "Really." And he was. Miriam was not only an obligatorily important part of Sherlock's life, but an interesting and rather complex person on her own. Her gazes and glances always held more than they appeared, and her motivations were often such that even Sherlock could not deduce them. Quite befitting of the Holmes family, actually. Once Miriam was safely stabilised, John stood slowly and put a hand on the back of her chair. "I do think it's about time for us to head back home, though," he said cordially, glancing up at Sherlock in a look meant only for him; one that said 'I love you' and 'thank you' and 'I'm proud of you' all at once.

"Of course, my dear. I shan't keep you longer. If you're no longer hungry, go and pack. I'll see you out in the hall." Miriam needed a moment to truly recoup herself anyway. Hopefully, she and Mycroft could have as much success in reestablishing themselves this evening. Sherlock didn't leave straightaway, even with the kind dismissal, but remained a few beats just to monitor his mother to ascertain her state. She patted his hand on her arm. "Look at you, such a dutiful son," she teased, an easy if still somewhat emotional smile on her face.

Sherlock, a little flushed, nodded and finally stood. Together, he and John made their way out back towards their guestroom. Once sufficiently out of earshot, Sherlock spoke.

"Saying anything seemed like a much better idea in my head. I should have expected that reaction. Stupid." Knocking Mother off her emotional pedestal with departure this imminent felt incredibly unfair, even to him. But leaving her without any doubt (for both of them, really) in regards to the status of their relationship had seemed the right move. "I don't know what I'm doing with any of this."

At they made their way down the hall, the back of John's hand brushed against the fingertips of Sherlock's.

"The right thing," he returned quietly and he tilted a smile toward Sherlock as they walked. "Granted, rather clumsily, but even so." They reached the room and John held the door open for him and then stepped inside himself. He moved into the bathroom to gather up the various discarded articles of clothing, tossing them on the bed in a pile. While Sherlock was attempting to locate a particularly elusive sock, John appeared back in the doorway to the bathroom and leaned against the frame, crossing his arms and watching for a moment.

"I _am_ proud of you, you know. I mean, you make me proud of you every day, but all this with your mother, and...your father." He stepped forward to slip a hand up Sherlock's arm and cup the side of his neck. "You began mending years' worth of resentment in a single night, all on your own." A calloused thumb traced along a defined jawline. "That's something I couldn't even do. You truly amaze me, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock accepted the compliment in stride with a smile. It faded as he considered John's last few words.

"What I was going to mention to Mother before I stopped myself was that I had compared our respective relationships with our fathers when I was thinking earlier. You served as a suitable extreme to compare against. Given a combination of circumstances, such as the fact my father never physically hurt me, and put some modicum of effort into seeking forgiveness at the end, I couldn't justify the same response you had." He took the hand at his face and held it in his two contemplatively. "It's not your fault you couldn't do the same. Even _if_ you had sought reconciliation, it sounds like your father had absolutely no interest in putting forth any effort. All your attempts to understand your father's perspective in abusing you would have come to naught simply because he would have been so obstinate. And, of course, he doesn't deserve the chance from the first for what he did to you. So it's not that _you_ can't show that kind of magnanimity, John; circumstances merely prevent you from being able to attempt it. That is an entirely different perspective and I hope you understood that already." He kissed the knuckles of John's hand and returned to packing, oblivious yet again to the potential impact of his explanation.

When Sherlock dropped John's hand, it fell loosely at his side. He stared at the other as Sherlock continued to pack, his face a mixture of vulnerable shock and gentle awe. This man had casually taken his hand and effectively blown apart his entire carefully constructed panic room, in which his father had been imprisoned for years. Now he felt as though the man might be on the loose, the steel walls having been utterly decimated by Sherlock's unknowingly explosive words. The matter-of-fact way he'd said it only seemed to sharpen the blow, and the feeling that the devil of his childhood could be running loose in his mind again terrified him. But taking a moment to consider Sherlock's words, John realised he was right, of course. He opened his mouth but all that came out was a heavy, edged sigh, and that was it, so he nodded even though Sherlock wasn't looking at him and moved to his side to help pack.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at John's delay. They finished getting everything back together quickly enough, and when they did, Sherlock turned to regard his partner again. He looked...tired, all of a sudden. A bit dazed. Recognition struck.

"You...hadn't considered that, had you?" Dulled, avoidant eyes answered his question silently. Sherlock held John's chin with a thumb. "None of it ever was or will be your fault, John. You are the most giving, kind soul I know, and your family situation is not due to any character defect on your part," he assured firmly. With that, he slung the bag over a shoulder, took John's hand again and made for the hall anew. Mother would give him a home here; that, more than anything, made Sherlock happy and drove his reconciliation with her. It was important to him, too, but John more so.

It was just as well Sherlock didn’t give John time to reply, because he didn’t really have anything to reply with. The man shattered people’s entire carefully built worlds one moment and doled out the most sincere compliments in the next without batting a single long, dark eyelash – or maybe it was just John. Something warm twisted in his stomach and caused a smile to seep into his entire face at the thought. Their hands swung lightly, naturally between them as they walked and John contemplated the entire way out to the car. It was only after Sherlock had tossed the bag into the boot that he figured out what to say, but it appeared eloquence had evaded him once again, because all he did was give a little shrug and mumble.

“Thank you.”

Sherlock slammed the boot shut and gave John an odd look for the delay before shrugging and shaking his head. He pulled John close and kissed his forehead; while doing so, he could see Miriam descending the entry steps from the house. He wove around his partner to go meet his mother at the base of the walkway and gave an uncertain, almost shy nod at her.

“Thank you for having us and…inviting this opportunity.”

Miriam sighed heavily, more a release of leftover emotion and tension than any kind of irritation. Sherlock noted her eyes were even redder now – she’d done some more crying after they’d headed back to the room to pack.

“At risk of being redundant, I’m glad you even came at all, dear. Even more so for what we’ve managed to achieve.”

Her son nodded his agreement, and she began to dissolve into tears again.

“Do come out to the cottage sometime, if you are so inclined. Or, if you prefer, I can have the house left to you cleaned and aired out, and see you there instead. No one’s been up to it in a number of years.”

“Both are viable. I’ll…” he hesitated as he realised he had no way of getting a hold of her. “You read the blog – you must have a computer of some kind. Can I email you?”

She nodded.

“Your brother has it; ask him when you get home.”

Now out of suitable small talk to avoid The Moment, Miriam covered her face with a hand briefly in a mostly-failed attempt to compose herself.

“Soon, then,” she sighed.

“Soon,” he agreed sincerely, and offered her a tiny, reassuring smile as he pulled her in for a stiff but nonetheless grateful embrace. She pulled away and held his eyes.

“Be careful, pet,” she murmured.

Sherlock did his best to avoid being outwardly flabbergasted by the endearment and simply nodded his acknowledgement. He let her go so she could head over to John. Unsure as to how he’d like to give his own goodbye, she stayed a familiar yet respectful distance away and smiled gratefully.

“You take excellent care of him. Thank you. Now make sure he does the same for you,” she said with watery eyes and just a touch of teasing in her voice. John inwardly frowned. It wasn’t as though he wouldn’t like to go up to Miriam and give a friendly goodbye. But the gulf between them seemed to widen as she withdrew and broke at the same time. He wasn’t sure whether or not she even wanted him to approach, but a genuine desire to show some manifest of their newly-formed relationship won out in the end and he stepped up to her, holding out a hand. When she took it after a moment’s hesitation, he lightly shook her hand before lifting it up to press a courteous kiss to it. Friendly enough, yet still polite.

“It’s been my pleasure to slowly discover he already does. Thank you for having us.”

He smiled broadly and nodded in a single, tiny bow before turning back to make his way to the car. He gave one more wave before sliding inside, the inexplicably exhausting and relieving feeling of having the leather seat resting against his back once again engulfing him.

Sherlock caught her wistful glance as he made for the car himself.

“Next time,” he reassured at a murmur to answer her regret for not being more forward with John. He held her eyes as he took his seat next to John, only breaking it once the door was closed and the car began to pull away. They exchanged one little wave and that was it. As soon as the car was safely out of sight of the house, Sherlock deflated considerably as he turned in the backseat to put his head in John’s lap and his feet up against the door and window, heedless of the driver and the expense of the car. He turned his face so it pressed into his partner’s stomach, exhaustion inexplicably settling over him despite his excellent and restful night’s sleep. Having been looking out the other window, John was momentarily surprised when he felt the warm, solid weight in his lap, but he smiled and didn’t look down as he slid a hand into Sherlock’s silky hair. That was the interesting thing about his enigma of a man; Sherlock was extremely put off by affection and closeness with just about every person on the planet except those he was closest to, and then he was like a cat that just laid all over you as if you were his property anyway. His smile widened a tad and he ran his nails lightly along his partner’s scalp. 

“Sleep?” he suggested, unsure of whether or not the man wanted to nap on the ride home or simply…be.

Sherlock hummed noncommittally.

“Whatever happens.”

John’s suggestion proved too enticing, as within five minutes he was, indeed, asleep. The ride of the car and the gentle hum of its engine were surprisingly soothing, an excellent contrast to the yelling and crying and general peaked nature of their visit. And, of course, John was very comfortable. Were he awake to appreciate it, he’d have been shocked that he was napping in the early afternoon – save for the gravest of illness, that _never_ happened. It was yet another marker of how much effort had been put into the last twenty-four hours without either of them really noticing. Sherlock was the sort of stubborn that didn’t admit anything until he absolutely had to and even then he didn’t like to. As soon as he was sleep, John looked back up and out the window. Times like this were nice, and not just because Sherlock was asleep, but _because_ he was asleep, John could retreat as much into himself as he wanted without the risk of being analysed. He could let his thoughts drift to anyone or anything and never say a word, and there would be no pair of pale eyes staring curiously at him (though he often enjoyed that more than he’d admit). John stroked through Sherlock’s hair in a cycle while he ran over the last twenty-four hours in his head. The tension, the fights, the sex, the sex, the sex, the reconciliation, the uneaten breakfast, the unsure yet sincere goodbye. He felt ages older than he had been just a day ago, and before he knew it, he was out like a light, head leaning against the window.

 


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So sorry for the lateness this month!! I've barely had time to breathe working overtime this month, and S is buried in schoolwork~
> 
> Hope you're all well, and thank you as always for reading~ ^_^
> 
> M

The bump of the car overtaking inertia was what woke Sherlock in one blinking, highly confused moment. He didn’t sit up right away; that impulse to remain as still and quiet as possible – even when sleeping – was still deeply ingrained from his time abroad. In fact, it was so deeply ingrained, he could feel his fight-or-flight compulsion kicking in with a vengeance, even as he tried to rationalize he was fine. John still napped peacefully above him, so Sherlock stared him down to alleviate his involuntary bout of anxiety. Once better, he slowly sat up – they were back in the city and had stopped at a light. Not far from home, either. Maybe ten minutes. Still, he let John go the last couple minutes before nudging him as they turned onto Baker Street. Under usual circumstances, where Sherlock may have shot some kind of familiar barb at John for napping, now he merely watched the other man rouse with a reserved contentedness.

John awoke with a little jolt as always, taking a moment or two to blink the sleep out of his eyes and assess his situation. When reality had ingrained itself once again in his head, he found pale eyes staring over at him and felt comforted, somehow, by the familiarity of their expression. He let out a large yawn and glanced out the window to find them back at home, then blinked in surprise.

“The entire ride…” He shook his head and opened the car door. “Guess we were more tired than we thought,” he muttered, more to himself than his partner, and stepped out to grab the bag while Sherlock dealt with the cab fare. By the time Sherlock had stepped out of the cab, John was already to the door and taking out his keys to unlock it. He pushed it open and waited for Sherlock in the doorway, bag slung over his shoulder, looking tired but altogether happy.

Home. As he had told John before they left, the manse held no such attachment for him, but in returning to 221B after such a trying couple of days, the word somehow meant more that usual in reference to the flat. Quiet and solitude, all on his terms. His own space to permit and deny entry of others, should he wish. The kind of autonomy he’d taken for granted yet again, even in the comparably short time since he’d returned to London. He met John at the base of the stairs and once again simply stared at him for a long moment, a reciprocating, exhausted smile blooming on his features. He wasn’t sure what to say. He’d already thanked John a multitude of times for coming along, relayed to him his doubts and insecurities regarding the past day, told him he’d loved him in numerous ways (though he doubted John would ever tire of that), and generally had just talked himself and the situation to death. So he let it go and took John’s hand to lead him up to the flat proper.

If he had ever been in doubt, moments like this were as reaffirming as it could get that there was some sort of telepathy between them that negated words. Words were petty, restrictive. They could never nail down the innumerable facets of their unity, so it was fitting that they didn't even try. When they reached the top of the stairs, John pushed the door open with his free hand and let go of Sherlock's to carry the bag into the bedroom. The second he dropped it on the bed, however, he left it there, returning at once to wind his arms around his partner's hips and stroke his sides, laying a single kiss at the base of his throat.

Sherlock purred his satisfaction at the introductory kiss. Along with all of the reconciliation and new territory formed in his familial relationships, so, too, did Sherlock feel he'd achieved a new level of familiarity with John. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised; this had been a Big Deal for him, telling John about the unpleasantries of his childhood up through his twenties. There were a lot of events there for anyone to judge with varying shades of harshness, but as ever, John took it in stride and somehow managed to find reasons to love Sherlock all the more. He couldn't conceive of any other person who would be so understanding, so accommodating; he had a hard time even conceiving _John_ was willing to be. If there ever was a practical, unpoetic definition of a soulmate, that had to be it, he realised with a heavy swoop in his gut. It left him a little unsteady on his feet for the force of the idea.

John felt the minute, unsteady shifting of Sherlock's hips in his arms and drew his light brows together in a small frown against his partner's neck. He glanced away to the sofa, and then to the bedroom, debating with himself. It was obvious to him which to choose, but he wasn't sure if Sherlock was up for a session that could most certainly stem from a decision on the bedroom as a choice. Sliding his arms back to take a slender, pale hand in his own, John guided him to the room nonetheless, figuring if Sherlock wanted to rest a while, John could use the time to unpack.

Sherlock blinked his confusion as they trotted off towards the bedroom, but still chose to say nothing. Given John's laid-back demeanour, he likely thought Sherlock was merely dead on his feet and needed some rest. He _was_ exhausted and probably could indeed use the rest, but he'd rather drive it into the ground and sleep more consistently. He had no problem with crashing in the mid-afternoon and waking up at one or two in the morning; he could get quite a bit done overnight while John slept more normal hours. Better than periodic napping – waste of time. So, once over the threshold, Sherlock took initiative and steered John into the wall just past his poster of the periodic table. He pinned him there just long enough to get a first sample of his mouth, before crouching and nudging John's thighs insistently in suggestion to hitch him up. Unfortunately, John would probably never be able to do something like this due to his shoulder, but nothing was stopping Sherlock.

All at once, John felt very, very stupid that he'd ever doubted Sherlock would choose this over sleep. He grinned and obliged, first spreading his thighs so Sherlock could wiggle in between, then lifting them up just as he stood. Their timing was such that when his legs sought hips to wind around, they were perfectly in place to do so, and he lifted his arms to wrap lazily around Sherlock's neck. He happily leaned his head back to rest against the wall, gaze alternating between Sherlock's face and their joined hips. As his eyes trailed down once again, he curled his legs more tightly around his partner and crossed his ankles so that for a long, lovely moment, they were squeezed together in the best way possible.

The base of Sherlock's spine quivered at the increase of pressure. Hitching John up just enough so his hips could keep most of the upward force, he freed up his hands to begin undoing John's belt and buttons on his shirt. John's arched neck l left him completely vulnerable to attack. He drove his nose into the crook of John's neck and laved a long, greedy stripe of his tongue up from his collarbone. When it reached the top, he punctuated the action with heavy sucking right on his pulse. John's belt buckle jingled as Sherlock took a few experimental thrusts up and into the wall, grunting quietly into his partner's shoulder. It was excellent, the perfect appetizer for now, but would soon be not nearly enough.

A tiny whoosh of air rushed out of John's mouth at the combined sensations of sucking and bucking; he strained his chest out a bit in order to provide a little more room to arch his neck, silently asking for more of Sherlock's mouth. His breathing turned heavy, and in turn became soft, pitched sighs that were wrung out of him more from frustration than actual pleasure. He was at an impasse with himself; logistically, they could not move forward if he didn't unwrap his legs at least a little for Sherlock, if only to shuck his own trousers off and work on his partner's, but the thought of being pried off him for even one moment made him instinctively tighten more until his grip around Sherlock like a python's. He let out a little noise of frustration and dragged his nails down the back of the other man's neck to get his attention. Appealing to him for help.

Sherlock noted the imploration and responded by simply pressing into John a little more insistently, a smirk cutting his face. He had John nicely pinned where he wanted him, and without any options to really help himself, so Sherlock could take a bit longer in winding him up for his own amusement. As he took his time teasing the shell of John's ear and pulling on the lobe with not-so-gentle teeth, Sherlock briefly considered the logistics of wall sex. He quickly had to abandon the thought for the requisite lube taunting him from the night table. Oh, well. It was a nice thought. Stealing a leaf from his partner's playbook, he tilted his head to the side and bit down on his Adam's apple as a final tease. With that, he urged John with an arm to lean into him before picking him up off the wall entirely and carrying him over to the bed, dumping him unceremoniously onto it and climbing on top before he even stopped bouncing on the mattress.

John's eyes widened and he felt a whip of heat surge through his stomach at being handled so easily by Sherlock. The surprise, however, slipped off his face as easily as it had come, replaced by something like mischief mixed with determination. As soon as Sherlock crawled over him, John curled his legs around him and slammed them together. As quickly as Sherlock had dropped him on the bed, John flipped them over and unwound his legs so he was sitting atop his partner, straddling him nicely. Allowing Sherlock a moment to adjust to the switch in positions, he leaned over slowly until their faces were inches apart.

“I want to ride you like the first time you fucked me, do you understand?” He punctuated his words with a circular rub of his arse back against the other man.

Watching John bark at the corporal at Baskerville nearly four years past had been Sherlock's first real introduction to John as an irrefutable superior. That time in Cardiff had been a particularly difficult era in fending off his burgeoning feelings for John, having just come off the Adler case and a relapse from smoking. Vulnerability had swarmed him at every turn in that case, and to top it all off, listening to John use his full-force military bearing made Sherlock truly accept he not only had romantic feelings, but _by God,_ he wanted to have sex with him. That had led to a nerve-wracking couple of weeks afterward of surreptitious wanking sessions when John wasn't home, trying to exhaust the allure of John ordering him around.

Suffice to say it hadn't worked, and now that he was here, he could only manage wide eyes and a mute nod in response, whatever slack left in his length now completely gone.

John couldn't help himself. Sherlock's immediate and, by the feel of it, enthusiastic response caused him to break out into a wolfish grin of victory. Not that he thought Sherlock would have objected in the slightest – his military edge had, at the very least, intrigued Sherlock; he'd seen that. And now that he knew exactly what it did to his partner, John was not opposed in the least to dropping it in at random times, perhaps even in simple conversations or at crime scenes – oh, he could have so much fun...for the time being, however, he leaned down to suck mercilessly at the curve where Sherlock's neck met his shoulder, one arm propping him up on one side so he could use the other arm to slide under and flick open his lover's trousers, tugging them down impatiently.

While opening up his trousers, John ran an open palm over Sherlock's pants, making him seize for a moment for the sensation. John's first time had had Sherlock sitting up against the headboard, but he was, admittedly, more intrigued at the moment in remaining entirely recumbent while being ridden. Hopefully his partner wouldn't mind the slight change in ambiance. The overall tone here was different from then, too; this was far more aggressive and, to a certain extent, unbalanced between them. The first time had been two equals meeting and relishing just being alive after a difficult few days – this was one asking more from the other, perhaps a bit greedy. Not that Sherlock minded that dynamic _at all_. Demanding looked fantastic on John.; he didn't indulge enough. Words floated to the forefront of his mind and he grinned.

“Permission to remain on my back... _sir_ ,” he added lasciviously.

John's eyes flashed darkly at Sherlock's words and he pulled back to look down at him properly. Sherlock's trousers were down around his ankles now, at the perfect spot to be just restrictive enough. Clothes soon became an irritating inhibitor, and John pushed his already-loosened trousers down and off along with his pants in one sweeping motion. He wasn't trying to tease now, because he knew he didn't have to. Sherlock's shirt didn't take much work at all to shuck off, as John had no time for buttons. Once the plane of his partner's chest was exposed, he skated his gaze down over it until he reached the telling bulge of Sherlock's pants, at the top of which there was a single round, wet stain. John tilted his head at it, as if considering the request, pursed his lips in a hum, and whipped Sherlock's pants down.

“Granted,” he replied, sitting back up. They still needed lube, but Sherlock's pre-come was abundant enough so that John could rub back obscenely, letting the length of the man's hardened cock settle in the cleft of his arse.

Sherlock's fists tightened in the sheets to prevent himself from rutting back at the not-quite-enough sensation against him. The steely gaze remained fixed on John's face, lightened only by a downright predatory smirk barely visible in his lips. Distantly Sherlock wondered if the delightful sinking feeling in his torso was the same feeling John got when Sherlock gave him a similar look. His eyes flicked down to John's erection and lost himself for a few moments in just watching it bob and sway as he waited for his partner to make his next move. Slowly his hands relaxed from the sheets and repositioned themselves at John's thighs, thumbs drawing little lines across the top in reserved suggestion. He looked up again, measuring the angle at which he sat; whatever John chose to do, this would make for one hell of a show for Sherlock from where he was sitting. An image flashed across his inner eye of John, panting and red, arching back as bucked on top of Sherlock. His cock throbbed with new, searing heat and he had to swallow down a deep moan threatening to bubble up from his chest.

John's mouth twisted in the unwelcome revelation that he'd have to move from his position to grab the lube, but the thought of what they'd soon be doing with it won out in the end. He neatly ducked off and plucked the lubricant off the end table, settling back onto Sherlock's hips just as easily. There was a serious moment of contemplation before John finally decided he didn't care much at all for the usual preparation, so when he squirted out a healthy amount of the stuff, he took hold of Sherlock's impressive erection behind him instead. This way, John was able to slick his partner up and pin him with his eyes at the same time, drinking in every contortion of pleasure in the man's face. When he was fairly confident he was ready, John guided the head of Sherlock's cock to his entrance and didn't pause to let the other catch up before slowly sinking down, face a mixture of a tense snarl and an overwhelmed slackjaw.

Sherlock tried his best to hold John's eyes as the lube was applied, but between the smouldering gaze and the touch, his eyes were rolling back up in his head more than actually watching. His attempt at a concerned intervention morphed into a projected howl when John dropped down him. This was the second time he'd pulled a stunt like this – he was a _doctor_ , for Christ's sake, he knew damned well he could really hurt himself. But all that worry was instantly swept aside as sensation overwhelmed him. John was so tight that for a few moments he didn't move down at all – Sherlock could only adjust the pitch of his cry as any sort of acknowledgement of his lover's plight. As he finally gave and stretched, the sensation settled enough so that Sherlock could open his eyes – what little air was still in his lungs left in a heady rush at the sight of John. His head was thrown back and his jaw slack; his thighs trembled around Sherlock's hips; one hand was splayed across Sherlock's belly and the other arm shivered in mid-air, clenching and unclenching a fist in a confused and aimless attempt to articulate the sensation. And, of course, the head of his cock was darkened and leaking obscenely. Flailing an arm, Sherlock caught the hand at his abdomen and interlaced their fingers.

"John, _move_ ," he croaked, fighting to keep himself together long enough to get John going.

Well, it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Admittedly, the pain blooming up from the base of his spine was intense; hell, the _entirety_ of it was intense. He felt like he was being pried apart and overwhelmingly filled at the same time, and perhaps he really was, but there was no way in hell John was going to look down to check. No, he wasn't about to waste all this for one glance down that'd have him shooting before he'd even started moving. Moving. _Move_ , Sherlock's voice cut through to him and his eyes shot wide open, fingers curling over Sherlock's as he turned his gaze down to lock with his. Sherlock's face was safe to look at. _God_ , did John want to see that face as it made every single beautiful expression of agony and ecstasy. Leaving his mouth hanging open lasciviously, flush working its way from his cheeks all the way down his neck, John stared Sherlock down, gritted his teeth, and lifted his hips a little to push them back down and fuck himself on his partner at his own pace.

More out of habit than conscious effort, Sherlock reciprocated John’s dead-on, intense gaze. _Nobody_ was going to win against Sherlock in an intimidating stare-down if he could help it. Yet still, remotely, he reserved a bit of concern for John’s sudden, reckless tack. Was something bothering him? Regardless, there was no way he was going to get answers now, so he filed it away for the moment. Tried though he did to let John have his run of things, Sherlock’s hips rocked a little of their own accord, reaching for yet more stimulation than was already being wrung from him via John and his lack of preparation. His eyes narrowed as he took hold of his lover’s cock, pressing a thumb into the slit as he so enjoyed. The involuntary shudder that followed squeezed Sherlock inside John further, making him shake and his eyes roll into his head. He let his head fall back in a little show for the man riding him and gave a theatrical (but _certainly_ not fake) moan.

“So _tight_ , darling. You love it, don’t you. Being so filled with me you can hardly move. So greedy for more, you claw at me for every last twitch.”

John’s cock twitched traitorously in Sherlock’s hand at his words, but his face set into a comfortably commanding expression. He arched his back, bowing down on Sherlock until he felt him slide in to the hilt. Biting down hard on his bottom lip and exhaling harshly through his nose, he tilted his head almost mockingly, as if daring Sherlock to speak.

“I do,” he replied, and by now his voice was thick and full, reflecting his body’s plight. “Every last twitch.”

Spreading his straining thighs even further apart, John circled his hips so Sherlock shifted inside of him, dragging a guttural sound out of him as his own erection rubbed against Sherlock’s hand.

“And you love it, too. I can tell from the way your eyes darken and your body thrums. You _love_ the idea of being inside me, don’t you? Claiming me in a way no one else ever will, no one ever _could._ God, Sherlock-”

He broke off, turning his flushed face to the side and squeezing his eyes shut as his movements caused the other to brush his prostate. Grinning victoriously, Sherlock did his best to find that spot inside John to make him buckle again.

“You’re bloody right I do. Because you’re fucking _mine_ , John,” he seethed, laying extra emphasis into his name. He managed to push himself up onto his hands to see John eye-to-eye. “What isn’t there to love about watching you melt at a single touch, or knowing exactly what it takes to leave you begging for me regardless of place or prudence? I _know_ you and your mind inside and out; I have from the start. And that’s what you crave.”

He was shaking from arousal and the effort to stay upright, but he remained where he was on stubborn principle.

“You _need_ that presumption, that knowledge I understand every whim of your mind down to the last filthy detail. Like how you want to have me in whatever dark corner is convenient after we chase down a suspect, or something equally dangerous.”

His eyebrows tilted down in sinister glee.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about popping one off after nearly getting ourselves killed together. I _know._ ”

At Sherlock’s last emphatic word, John pulled himself up and slammed down again, making him howl with the intensity of the sensation. He dragged the nails of one hand down Sherlock’s protruding vertebrae, cutting into the skin a bit as he carved his way over the uniform bumps. When he at last regrouped enough so that he could manage speech again, he grabbed Sherlock by the throat with his free hand and raised himself up so he was staring sharply down at him.

“You do know,” he hissed, “because you _have_ to know. That’s what _you_ get off on. Oh, darling, I _love_ watching you after a chase and imagining I’m taking you right there, right like that.”

“If that’s what you want,” Sherlock whispered, “ _what’s stopping you?_ ”

John leaned closer and tilted Sherlock’s head by his neck, scraping at the sensitive spot just behind the other man’s ear before putting his lips to it.

“Do you want to know something else? I get hard the _second_ I know you’re going to touch me.”

He picked up the pace, slanting his hips at harsher and harsher angles as his back arched further. Sherlock slipped unexpectedly gentle fingers around the hand at his neck, eyes wide and still smiling, though it had taken something of a manic form, extended beyond rationality by the moment and arousal.

Sherlock drifted forward even as John’s pumping increased on and around him and traced the soft tip of his tongue from the hollow of John’s neck and up the underside of his jaw, contrasting their harshness up until now. That was what John expected, and Sherlock had ever been a man of the unexpected. And maybe John needed harsh sometimes, but the tiny piece of Sherlock’s mind that was still rational understood that wasn’t now, even if that was what he wanted. John perhaps revelled in the rough and harsh, found comfort in being able to exercise his self-consciousness and/or bestial side safely, but he needed reminding none of his fears were, in fact, true. He let his tone drop into dark silk, alluring for the undercurrent of danger John loved so much hidden in its pitch.

“All you’d ever have to do is ask, _mi corazón_. Because even as you are mine, _soy tuyo, para siempre._ ”

The change was so sudden, John froze, body and mind trying to determine what they wanted and how to proceed. The hand he had been clenching around Sherlock’s throat splayed open immediately, still curved around in its grasping position but no longer touching any part of Sherlock’s skin, merely hovering over its previous place. His fair brows pulled up and together, bottom lip quivering slightly as he stared Sherlock down with a new gaze, the sharpness from before falling away to something softer and unnameable. Somehow, though he’d been so passionate, before, this expression revealed much more of the pleasure than before, and when it shot up his spine again he gave a high-pitched whimper and pushed his head forward against Sherlock as some sort of anchor. His breathing gained a rhythm to complement his heartbeat, the exhale fast and sharp, inhale softer and following directly behind. Suddenly everything seemed novel; the way Sherlock smelled, his sensual Spanish, the idea of _asking_ for what he wanted – his heartbeat and breath increased with each moment, in tandem.

Sherlock pushed his advantage and wrapped his arms about John to take some of the effort in holding himself up out of the equation. So, too, was he glad for the relinquished grip at his throat; John had begun to drift a shade _too_ far into rough territory, even for the detective. On top of that, John would hate himself for the pass at threatening later. Sherlock didn’t much mind himself – he didn’t fear John or what he would do in the least, because as he had just demonstrated, he could help John out of the emotional quarantine the older man placed himself in at will. John could let go with Sherlock as his reserve, his tether that ensured he never did anything he feared he was capable of. He kept one hand circled around John’s shoulder and returned to pumping his cock in earnest, knowing how close he was. He said nothing, opting instead to tilt his chin into the side of John’s head alongside his ear, letting his heaving breaths edged with peaks of noise communicate his satisfaction as he tried to catch up.

John’s arms were useless now; he hung his hands loosely at Sherlock's hips, for some illusion of holding onto him. His rhythmic breathing became more and more erratic, the exhales harsher, the inhales more gasping; his upper body was bent in an almost perfect, bowed arc, head thrown back and mouth hanging slack for the sounds pouring steadily out of him like water. At the moment, he didn’t care as he usually did about holding out until Sherlock came, riding out the assault of that sweet spot inside him until one more jab made him tighten uncontrollably and his hips stutter into Sherlock’s hand as he striped both their torsos. The actual orgasm itself had been soundless this time, but the beautiful oversensitivity usurped by the still-thrusting Sherlock made him wail with surprising volume, tensing even more as he felt his love swell inside him.

“One more moment, my love, one-” Sherlock sputtered before being cut off by his abdomen seizing. Their mutual climaxes were perhaps not as intense as others had been in the past, but that was merely the distinction between ‘transcendent’ and ‘sublime’. Sherlock would probably find a shitty, five-minute handjob from John better than having his choice of anyone else’s ideal celebrity or supermodel encounter.

He forced himself to regroup quickly so he could retreat from John sooner rather than later, already pushing the boundary of overstaying his welcome. He flopped back into the mattress to give his partner space to pull off. Weakly, he slithered back towards a pillow at the headboard and considered the prudence of speaking his concern. It outweighed most of his consideration of afterglow – they’d had quite a bit of that in the last two days, anyway.

“John, are you okay?” he asked bluntly, damp brow scrunched in confusion and concern.

"Yes," came the immediate response, but when John flopped over onto the bed and thought about it, he frowned, the expression cracking the smooth serenity of his afterglow. The stickiness of the come lining his stomach made him wrinkle his nose in discomfort; after all, if it wasn't Sherlock's, he wasn't interested. After another moment of allowing the both of them to come down, John rolled on his side to face Sherlock, suddenly grabbing his hand in a post-haste attempt at reaching out. "I haven't had to think about her much recently," he admitted, eyes carefully focused on their joined hands. "Haven't had time. When that day comes...it's going to be a bit overwhelming for me. I...you have to be patient. I might be a bit...off."

Normally, Sherlock was the one changing or introducing new threads of conversation fast enough to cause whiplash, but it was only fair John got his chance every now and again. _Obvious, moron,_ he told himself. Mary. It was just over a week off, after all. Sherlock fully anticipated some kind of downward spiral over the following days. He was simply still caught in his own familial haze this afternoon; it would have burnt off by the next morning regardless, for Sherlock to refocus his attention on John.

"I may not be very good with feelings, John, but I have an appreciation for the difficulties of grief. It's the first year – of course it's going to be overwhelming. Whatever you need, I'll do my best to provide. I assume you'll still take the day to yourself?" He paused for a hesitant beat. "And I'm...sorry if I'm distracting you from thinking of her. That isn't my intention."

John sighed and rolled over onto his back, Sherlock's hand still clasped in his own as he stared through the ceiling, rather than at it.

"I know," he said quietly. "It's what should be happening – bit by bit, you know? It's part of moving on." He remained silent for several minutes and was grateful when his partner sensed enough not to interrupt his train of thought. The truth was, John knew exactly what was on his mind, and he knew exactly how to put it into words – it was getting over the stubbornness and shame of saying it that gave him pause. "I feel guilty all the time," he finally admitted in a soft, rhythmic voice that didn't cut through the silence, but rather intensified it. "When I don't think about her. I feel like I don't think about her nearly as much as I should. And maybe I do, maybe I don't - I don't know if there's even a way to find out about those things. But...it doesn't feel fair. To her."

Sherlock worried his lip a bit as he carefully chose his words.

“Were our positions reversed – if I’d actually died – I can tell you I wouldn’t want you to worry about that kind of thing, mostly because I would, in fact, be dead and no longer aware.” He turned his head on the bed to look at John, though his partner remained steadfastly facing the ceiling. “But I wouldn’t want to die knowing you’d be dragging yourself over the coals like this. And while I didn’t know Mary and can only make idle supposition regarding her character, I think it’s safe to assume she wasn’t anywhere near as selfish as I am.”

A tiny smile quirked the corner of his mouth for his bit of levity.

“So using my own opinion as a logical base, I think a fairly accurate deduction as to her wishes can be made in this situation.” He sat up and watched John from above, their joined hands in his lap. “Perhaps…the important thing is not the quantity of time you spend actively thinking about her, but rather merely never _forget_.” It was pure conjecture on his part – he had no idea what the right answer was, or if it even existed. He stared at his lap, resuming chewing on the inside of his lip. “And knowing you, you won’t. The core trauma of losing both your wife and child along guarantees that, but as well, your general character demands you remember.”

The vast, empty ceiling began to depress John, so he glanced down at his own naked body, regarding his painted stomach and reddened groin. He considered his partner’s words – wise, wise words _…when did Sherlock gain so much foresight_? – and traced his gaze across the jutting curve of his own hip. Sherlock was right, of course, _obviously_ , that Mary wasn’t meant to be a constant barrier in the forward motion of his life, but a soft undercurrent to flow alongside it.

“I do forget, sometimes,” he said, gazing over and up to settle on a point beyond Sherlock's left shoulder. “For a few moments at a time. I know I won’t ever forget her completely, but when I do for those little fleeting moments, and then I remember her again…it’s like I can see her face, like she’s smiling at me in that way she does…”

His eyes clouded over, giving the impression he was off in his own little world.

“…like she’s happy I can still be happy, even if it means not thinking about her sometimes.”

“Well, it sounds as though she knew at least some of the circumstances of your life. Anyone who loves you would want to see that improve,” Sherlock replied easily. For however sentimental the words were, it was simple logic to Sherlock. “You told me yourself you’d have never forgotten me if I had been truly dead, and you’d made great strides in moving past the trauma of my so-called death up until the point you lost her. This won’t last forever, John. It can’t. You know that. You are doing everything you can. If…if you _really_ wanted to, we could call this off for a while if you need more space to sort your feelings and thoughts,” he offered quietly. “All of this between us simply…happened. We haven’t stopped to consider our respective positions, and yours isn’t one to be lightly disregarded.”

He leant his elbows onto his knees where he sat cross-legged and interlaced his fingers before his face, purely to hide the saddened and honestly fearful frown threatening to overtake his features.

“No,” John replied immediately, so suspiciously calm that it could have been taken for understated panic. He exhaled heavily and his eyes retained their sharp awareness once more as they focused intently on the man above him.

“This, what this is between us,” he opened, lifting a hand to gesture in the space between them, “it’s been building since the first day I met you. It was when you left and it still was when I met Mary, and there was nothing I could do about it.”

He swallowed, blinking hard once to stay on track.

“That…everything happened when it did, that’s completely separate from everything else that happened to me. It feels like I’ve lived two lifetimes, actually, it’s so different. Sherlock, I won’t…I won’t give you up just because the timing’s shit. If anything, I need you more, because you and I both know I’m almost as bad at letting out my emotions as you are.”

“I wasn’t suggesting giving up in the least, John. I was merely offering you the opportunity to…the euphemism is ‘taking a break’, isn’t it? But I can see how adamant you are, so I won’t push the issue.”

He dropped his hands when the tide of anxiety had retreated a safe distance. “Believe me, it’s not that I _want_ to, but as I said before, you’re doing everything you can. The only thing more you could do is take some time away from this to sort yourself out. Allow me to stop potentially distracting you.”

With a bit of shuffling around on the mattress, he sat directly next to John, facing towards the headboard and legs tucked aside him where he sat.

“But if you feel you need me as part of your recovery process, I will, of course, acquiesce. And if Mary is even half as clever as she sounds to have been, she would have understood that you need the companionship.” He slipped the soft pads of fingers across the other man’s brow and into his hair, watching him lovingly. John’s eyes shone a bit, yet he was clearly being stubborn about letting his gaze soften and further betray his demeanour. “It never would have been about giving up and walking away. I am incapable of doing so.”

John shut his eyes to prevent them from showing too much. Sherlock could, no doubt, read him anyway, but at least John could entertain the illusion of keeping things to himself when he didn’t open his eyes to see Sherlock deduce everything without saying a word. He’d never been worried about Sherlock leaving him, not really, but even the thought had him reasserting his reluctance to allow the other man out of his life – or even his sight – for too long. Really, Sherlock often proclaimed himself to be the needier of the two (and needlessly apologised in frustration at himself for it), but John was quite sure that, if he allowed himself to indulge more, he’d be the needier by far. Something pushed to the forefront of his mind and he sat up suddenly, leaning in without warning to kiss Sherlock for a few long seconds before pulling away and nodding once.

“Okay.”

Sherlock was taken aback by the kiss; even by the time John was pulling away, he hadn’t properly adjusted for it.

“Right,” he replied with confusion. They were just words, really. All of this would be very difficult for both of them to keep in perspective come next week, but especially John. Even with the positive trajectory of the conversation, John’s eyes remained distant. Easily, Sherlock recalled the first month after John had begun living in 221B again. He’d moved with a phantom’s grace from room to room, as if he thought himself dreaming and on the very precipice of waking up to some other lonely, hellish existence. In a true twist of normal circumstances, it had been he who wouldn’t talk for days on end, didn’t sleep or eat, and generally regarded Sherlock (and the greater populace) with remote chill. During the worst of it, John wouldn’t get out of bed at all, too lost in trying to process his simultaneous loss and recovery of two people he loved beyond reason.

After three or so weeks of that, the dam finally broke, and John had been inconsolable. Seeing John cry – unreserved, outright sobbing – for the first time had forcibly unlocked the carefully-contained emotions Sherlock had been harbouring since his return, on top of thoroughly disturbing him. All the furious screaming he’d ever been on the receiving end of in irritating John paled in comparison to the powerlessness he felt in watching John completely come undone. He had stayed close, but still to a best-friend standard, nothing like he felt free to do now. It had been infuriating to be stuck sitting at the edge of the bed, watching him tremble and try to release a torrent of emotion for which no true outlet existed. Now, Sherlock was better prepared for the symptoms and infinitely better equipped to handle them.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for "The Melding" by immortalityinculture & midgetnazgul](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1657184) by [Lovesfic (me23)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/me23/pseuds/Lovesfic)




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